


The Fosters 4B: Take Two

by ficdirectory



Category: The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: Ableism, Depression, Disability, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2020-01-01 04:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficdirectory/pseuds/ficdirectory
Summary: A season 4B story that addresses Jesus’s brain injury, but without the ableism that appears in the series





	1. Cruel and Unusual

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic with lots of help from my sister. As a brain injury survivor herself, I know she has perspective about this storyline that I don’t. I referred to her notes on the episodes, her notes on the story as it was being written, and she had full access to edit anything she did not feel was accurate. We affectionately referred to this story as the World Without Ableism. Any ableism that does exist here, was picked out carefully and dealt with quickly by others in a scene. Internalized ableism does still exist here, because it’s very real for someone dealing with disability at a later point in their lives (even as an older child or a teenager.)

**Asking**

“I’m going to the hospital,” Mom says on the day after Jesus wakes up.

Last night, Mariana was still awake after 11 PM when Moms called home to let Brandon know Jesus was awake.  Even though Mariana had tried to pump Brandon for information, he swore that was all they said.

Just that he was awake and he knew them.

“Can I come?” Mariana asks, stepping forward.  She’s seriously not sure she can wait anymore.

“After school,” Mom decides.  “Mama or I will pick you up.”

“Okay…” Mariana breathes.  

Still, after school seems like forever.

Last night, she barely got any sleep.  Up every hour.  Knowing Jesus was awake but not being able to see him, not knowing for sure if he was okay was awful.

It still felt like all of this was a dream.  Mariana’s not okay at all.  This feels like it’s all her fault.  Now Mom’s going all intense, taking off their doors and it’s making Mariana wonder what else she is going to have to lose?

Having a door hadn’t even kept Nick out, but it was so much better than no door.

Mama hasn’t replied to her text.

Callie’s still not home.

She ducks back into her doorless room and checks the bus schedule closest to Anchor Beach.  Maybe she can catch the bus up to St. Michael’s at lunch.

She has to see Jesus.  

“Mariana, come on!  We kinda need three of us to carry these doors,” Jude calls.

“Fine, I’m coming!” Mariana calls, satisfied to know that she’ll be able to duck out of school - hopefully with no one the wiser since Mama’s not there today.

Besides, it’s not like Mariana will be able to concentrate on anything today anyway.

 

**Evaluation**

When Moms come in, Jesus is still so tired.

He has no idea why he’s here.  What happened.  He still has this feeling that Mariana’s in danger.  He needs to know she’s okay but he’s realizing nobody understood him when he tried to ask before.

The lights in the room are off and the blinds only let in a bit of light.  Jesus can hear every single noise.  Every other person here.  Smell everything.  Moms’ perfume reeks and fills the whole room.  One of them had nacho cheese Doritos and it’s like he’s trapped in a brand new giant bag.

It’s nauseating.

“Hey.  Hey bud,” Mom touches his shoulder and he’s awake.  Barely.  Their shapes are fuzzy in the dark.  And because of his eyes.  Maybe he just needs to sleep more.

“Hey sweetheart.”  Mama’s here, too.

“Hi, love,” Mom again.  Her hand in his hair.  Kissing his forehead.  It hurts.

His arm and leg are all twitchy.  Like he’s restless, but he’s totally spent.  Vaguely, Jesus wishes they would hold still.  But he doesn’t have the energy to worry.

It’s so hard to stay awake.

“I’m Dr. Danville.  I’m your neurologist.  Can you tell us your name?” Dr. Danville asks.

Jesus knows his name.  Obviously.  It’s on the tip of his tongue.  It’s right there.  But he can’t say it.  It’s like the word is taking the long way from his brain to his mouth now, instead of the usual shortcut.

Seconds crawl by.

He blinks, trying to get his name out.  Sounds come first, because that’s how it goes on the scenic route.  Eventually, the word comes back to him and out of his mouth:

“Uh–  Jesus…” he manages, looking to Moms to be sure they understand.  To be sure he’s actually saying what he thinks he’s saying and not just stuff no one gets.

They smile.  The neurologist says, “Good.”  He must be in the clear then.

He doesn’t get a break, though.  They’re just getting started.

“Can you tell me…” Dr. Danville begins.  He takes out a tool from his bag, like he’d use to work on the garage, not like a doctor would have on him.  Jesus is too tired to wonder why he just carries it around.  “…what this is that I’m holding?”

“It’s a–hammer,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Dr. Danville asks.

Jesus raises his eyebrow.  He’s sure as hell it’s a hammer.  

“Good.  That’s a positive sign.  You know the category.  That this is a tool, right?  But you said it was a screwdriver,” Dr. Danville points out.

Oh God.  It’s happening again.  He’d been so sure he said  _hammer_ , but the looks on Moms’ faces make it clear that he got it wrong.  And hearing Dr. Danville say  _screwdriver_  makes Jesus’s stomach drop.  

What does this mean?  Why can’t he say what he means?  What happened to him?  He looks at Moms and Mom rubs his shoulder.  Tries to smile.

“It’s a hammer, right?” Dr. Danville asks.  “You hammer nails.”  He moves the hammer up and down like he’s hammering.  “Can you say hammer?”

Jesus has to get it right this time.  He does his best to block out the perfume and the Doritos.  The light from the hall.  The people out there.  Monitors beeping.  Mom’s hand on his shoulder.  His right arm and leg moving.

“Hammer,” he says, still unsure.  He’s only sure he actually said hammer when the doctor says “good” and Mom says, “That’s it, bud.  Way to do it.  Way to do it.”

It helps that she looks calm.  Like she believes he can do this.

When Dr. Danville takes a brush out next and asks if Jesus can tell him what it is, Jesus is feeling a tiny bit more confident.  Seconds pass, but the word is there:

“Mmm, it’s a brush.”

“Good, good, good,” the doctor says.

Mama reaches over to squeeze his hand and tell him good job.

“Jesus, I’m going to talk to your Moms for a minute.  We’ll be just outside this door,” he gestures.

Maybe while they’re gone, he can get another nap.  

–

Outside the ICU, Stef and Lena look to Dr. Danville.  

“Jesus is experiencing something called aphasia.  He knows what he wants to say.  He understands what’s said to him.  But finding the word he wants to say, and saying the word he means to say, is difficult.”  

“How can we help?” Lena asks.

“With brain injuries, the person often experiences difficulty filtering sensory information.  So Jesus is likely experiencing sights, sounds, smells and touches simultaneously and more intensely than he did before.  Because of this, it will help if you can speak to him in a quiet environment, away from a lot of stimuli.  Use short, simple sentences, especially at first.

“We always assume he’s competent.  So you’re not simplifying to talk down to him.  You’re simplifying because it’s less for him to filter.  He needs you to adapt.  He needs you to be patient.  Frustration is common, and it’s legitimate.  So pause often.  And get used to asking questions about what Jesus is saying, especially if it isn’t clear to you.”

“What about physically?” Stef wonders.

“Well, it’ll take some further evaluation, but it looks like he has a right-sided hand tremor and some leg twitching.  We’ll set him up with appropriate adaptive equipment.  A wheelchair to begin with for safety reasons.”

“When can he come home?” Stef asks.

“Look, I’m optimistic about his prognosis, but his full recovery is going to take a long time.  He’s going to need round-the-clock care.  But the hospital has a terrific inpatient rehab facility that specializes in TBI.  I’m sure I can get Jesus a room.”

“We will talk about it then.” Stef nods.

“Good,” Dr. Danville agrees.

“Thank you.”

–

They’re not gone long enough for a nap.  Not a good one anyway.  Before Jesus knows it, Dr. Danville’s back to get his bag.  

“I’m going to see you soon, but before I go..”  (He takes out the damn hammer again.)  “Can you tell me what this is?”

“It’s a hammer.”

The response comes with less of a wait this time.  And the look on the doctor’s face lets Jesus know that this time, the right word came out.

 

**Visiting**

“Jesus.  Jesus.”

Hearing her voice makes him think he’s still dreaming.  But when he opens his eyes, she’s here.  Right here.  She looks okay.  Like Nick didn’t hurt her after all.

He’s so tired it’s hard to make her out.  The room’s still pretty dark.  But it’s definitely Mariana.  Slowly, she comes into focus.

“Hi,” she says.  Then: “I snuck in here to see you.  So don’t tell Moms that I’m here.”

“W-What?” (What does she mean?)

“Wait.  Why?  Why? Why? Mm.  What?  Why?”  (Seriously, why would she have to sneak in to see him?  Why can’t Moms know?  What’s going on?  What happened to him?)  “What?  Wait.  Why?  Why?”  (This is so damn frustrating.  Why can’t he stop this?)

Mariana’s been quiet and Jesus isn’t sure why that is, either.  But now, she takes a step forward.  She covers his left hand with her own.

“I just meant that they said I could come later.  But I couldn’t wait.  So I came now.  During lunch.  I took a bus here.  Moms don’t know that, so…that’s why I asked you not to say anything.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?” she asks.  “I was worried about you.”

“M-Me…too.  Nick.”

“We don’t have to worry about Nick.”

“Had a - a gun.  Hurt you.”

But Mariana shakes her head.  “He never had a knife, Jesus.  He had a gun but Mom took it away.  He didn’t hurt me.”

Again.  It keeps happening.  The wrong word in place of the one he’s sure he’s saying.  He keeps talking.  “It’s…my bad.”

“No, it’s not.  Jesus, you were at volleyball.  It wasn’t your fault.”

“It is.  I didn’t…save you.  Moms…were mad.”

“Mariana, honey?”  Mom.

Will Mariana be in trouble?

“Let’s let Jesus get some sleep.  Come with me.”

But Jesus holds tight to her hand.  “No.  Stay.”

“All right, love.  She can stay.  But you rest,” Mom encourages.

Jesus stops fighting to keep his eyes open.  If Mariana’s here, he knows for sure.

She’s okay.

So maybe they’re both okay.

 

**Homecomng**

Getting in the house is exhausting.

Steps.

Slippery floors.

Slippery rugs.

Mom on his left.  Brandon behind him, hanging onto the stupid transfer belt he has to wear over his clothes.  So they can catch him if he falls.  

A cane.  

A stupid helmet.

Glasses that don’t help with reading and give him even worse headaches.  

There had been other tests after Dr. Danville kept taking random stuff out of his bag to see if Jesus could say what it was.  A test for reading letters - he can only recognize about half - and even those were blurry and kept moving around the page.  Counting change had been terrible - he only recognized quarters and pennies.  And finding one name on a page crowded with other names while some lady timed him?  He failed that.  All the words blurring and rushing at him and moving around the page.  It wasn’t fair.

He hadn’t been able to talk, as tears tracked down his face on the way back to the room.  If he had, he would have begged Mama not to tell anybody he failed this.  That he cried about it.  But she just sat with him and told him nobody had to know unless he wanted them to.

By the time he gets to the living room, Jesus is sweating.  And he remembers what else he hates:

The damn hospital bed in the middle of the house.

He’s not the same.

With the family around, Jesus tries.  Tries to listen to everyone talking at once.  To say the right thing back.  To deal with daylight coming in the windows. With the massive headache that won’t stop.  

Jude brings water.

Brandon says, “Check it out.  Finally, your own room.”

“It’s not…mine.  It’s…the living room,” Jesus says back, because it’s not like he can enjoy this.  Everybody else’s room is upstairs.  It’s not like he can reach them if he needs to.  It’s not like he’ll have privacy.

Jude hands him glass.  Jesus takes it with his left hand on instinct.  Less chance of spilling.

“You should use your other hand,” Jude advises.

Callie smacks him and Jesus is glad, because Jesus has zero energy to tell Jude that being at home isn’t therapy and taking a glass in your steadier hand isn’t lazy, it’s smart.

“Apologize to him,” Callie hisses.

“Why?  His therapists tell him that literally all the time,” Jude balks.

“Are you a therapist?” Callie challenges.  “You didn’t micromanage Brandon when he broke his hand.  Why is Jesus different?”

“Fine!  Jeez!  Sorry, Jesus.  I won’t do it again,” Jude mumbles, embarrassed.

“Good,” Jesus answers.

“Hey, you hungry, sweetheart?” Mom asks.

“Who…me?” he says back.  

He’s trying so hard to be okay for them.  And days ago?  He would have said yes to food, not admitted that the smell of all his sibs and Emma and Moms and their combined cologne and perfume were enough to make him want to hurl.

“Yeah, right?  Good!  We got pizza!” Mom tells him too loudly.  “Pizza! Pizza pie!”

–

“Thank you, by the way,” Stef says, in the kitchen now.

“For what?” Lena asks over her shoulder.

“For, uh…taking a leave of absence…”

“Well, you make more money, babe,” Lena clarifies.  “And I just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving our baby in that place every night all alone.” Lena says sadly.  “With his background, especially…I just–”

“Couldn’t do it.  I know,” Stef jumps in.  “I just wish everybody would keep their thoughts to themselves.  About how we ought to keep Jesus in in-patient rehab until he gets better.  I mean what is that?  That’s not the goal.  He’s different now, and that’s okay.”

“We want him to be able to get around, and carry on a conversation without huge amounts of frustration.  We want him to read again, but you’re right.  Leaving him in an institution, especially having been as neglected as he and Mariana were.  It just doesn’t seem wise… For some, maybe it is the right choice, but for Jesus?” Lena insists, gathering plates and silverware and getting upset all over again.

“He’s home now.  Okay?” Stef reassures, kissing Lena gently.  

–

While Moms are in the kitchen, Jesus just sits.  He’s quiet.  He looks at Emma for help.  At Mariana.  But they’re all talking to each other.  

How can he get their attention?  How can he tell them that the idea of pizza is too much right now?  The smell from the kitchen?  Jude telling him to use his damn right hand? That what Jesus really needs right now is for everybody to go, and for the blinds to be closed and to just sleep?

Mariana and Brandon walk away too.  Callie, Jude and Emma are still here.  Emma’s showing him a get well card that he can’t read.  He says he has a headache.  (True.)  She’s helping him hold it and telling him what it says.  It’s humiliating, but it helps a bit that she just does this without it being a big deal.  Without even knowing for sure he can’t read.

Even though he’s beyond exhausted.

Even though he still wants to sleep.

“All right!  We got your pizza pie, my babies!  We got your pizza pie!” Mom announces.

Mama comes in behind her with plates.  “Make room!  Make room!”

“And the first piece goes to the man of the hour!  Jesus!  All right!” Mom is saying.

The smell is awful, magnified by a billion times.  Jesus is dizzy.  He turns to Emma.  “I, um…” he starts, trying to think about what he wants to say but it’s like his words hide out when there’s too much going on.  He needs it quiet, dark and he needs the damn pizza gone.  Then, maybe, his words will come back.  

“It’s okay,” Emma says.

But it’s not.  Jesus is really hating this.  

“Here you go,” Mama says, handing him a ridiculously heavy plate.  Not only does the pizza smell like Jesus’s wrestling bag used to smell after forgetting about it for a while, everything’s blurry and there are round things moving around his pizza.  It’s seriously making him dizzy.

“Uh, M-Mom?  W-What are…  What…  What is the round thing?”

“It’s a pepperoni, honey.  It’s your favorite,” Mama says.

Jesus is disgusted.  The pepperoni won’t stop moving.  And the pizza still stinks.  So bad.  “N-No.” he manages.

“You love pepperoni,” Emma tries.

This is gonna end badly.  “I- I don’t- I don’t want it,” Jesus insists feeling more freaked out at the possibility of upchucking in front of everybody.

“Okay,” Mama says, facing away from Jesus.  “Mom and I need to talk to Jesus, so why don’t you guys take the party in the kitchen?” she asks.

Jesus is beyond relieved when they all start to leave, taking their smelly pizza.  He puts his on the table and pushes it away.

“Better?” Mom asks, when everyone’s gone.

“Yeah,” he says.  But he reaches for the side table on wheels where his piece of pizza is and nudges it again.  Across the room would be better.

“You don’t want this,” Mama says, gesturing to the pizza, and it’s not a question.

(Jesus is so tired.)

“No.”

“So, I’m going to take it to the kitchen.”

“…Stinks,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“What does?” Mom asks, looking worried.

“That.  Pizza.”

“Yeah, it’s not Mama’s favorite smell either,” she says.  Then she waits.  “Do you want something else to eat?”

“Just wanna sleep.”

Mama comes back.  No pizza.  Thank God.

“A nap sounds good.  Maybe you’ll want food when you get up…” she offers, turning out the lights.

Jesus can hear Mom sending the party even further away, out back.  He hopes the nasty smell will go with them.

He hears Mama leave, too.  Opens his eyes to check.  All the pizza’s gone.  

All the people are gone.

It’s what he needs, but it’s so lonely.

Soft footsteps.  A footstool being pulled close. Feels Mariana’s hand slip into his.

She just sits.

It’s just what he needs.


	2. Doors and Windows

**Isolation**

With Mariana sleeping on the couch down here, Jesus knows exactly when she gets up to start getting ready for school.  He’s barely awake, but he hears the alarm on her phone, or the couch squeaking as she gets up.  Or her bare feet on the wood floor as she tries to be quiet.

The truth is, none of his sibs are quiet in the morning.  They thunder up and down the stairs.  Above his head.  In the kitchen.  Then through the living room and out the door. Jesus is so exhausted, he doesn’t even see them before they leave.

Last night, it had felt so good to talk to Mariana a bit.  He told her about the reading thing and today there’s a weird thing on his phone.

When everybody but Mama is gone and he’s by himself, Jesus tries to tap the screen and misses the seriously tiny icon with the 1 by it.  These glasses suck.  Everything’s blurry and swervy, and it makes him dizzy.

“Morning,” Mama greets, coming in from the kitchen.

He holds out his phone.  “Can you…help…with this?” he asks.

“Sure.  Let me see here.  Looks like you have some tweets some Facebooks…and a voice text from Mariana.  You want to hear Mariana’s first?” Mama guesses.

He nods.

“Should I step out?”

He nods again.

She presses a button and goes to the kitchen, telling him she’s getting breakfast.  That she’ll come back in a few minutes.

Mariana’s talking:

“So, hi.  Just wanted you to know that I loved our talk last night.  Have a good day today.  I’ll miss you when I’m at school…but I’ll be home right after.  Promise.  Love you.”

The lump Jesus has going in his throat is so huge he almost can’t swallow.  His eyes are more blurry than usual because of the tears.  His head hurts.  Why can’t this just be over?

He hates being alone.  And with everybody at school, that’s exactly what he is.  He just wants things back the way they were.  He wants to be with Mariana.  To go to school even though he hated school when he was there.

It was better than this.  Better than struggling to do everything.  To have getting ready in the morning take an hour.  To have to brush his teeth sitting on a stool, with Mama as a spotter, so he doesn’t lose his balance.

“Hey…  What is it?” Mama asks, back with bowls of cereal.  (Jesus is so glad it’s nothing cooked or heavy.  He doesn’t have an appetite.)

She gets on the bed with him.  Puts her arms around him.  

That just makes it worse.  Jesus can’t say anything.  Can’t describe the feeling of being so far down a giant dirt hole that the sky seems distant.  The sun like a memory.  With no help.  No way to climb out.  Out where happiness is.

He’s so damn lonely.

Mama just sits with him.  Just holds him.  Just lets him do what he’s doing and doesn’t tell him he shouldn’t or push him about what’s wrong.

When he’s calmer, he can manage a word here and there:

“School…” he whispers first.

“Yeah?”

“I want…to go…”

“I know you do, honey.  It’s hard to be left behind, isn’t it?’

He nods, miserable.

“You’ll go back to school.  It’ll happen.”

“No,” he says, feeling hopeless.

“Not right away, no.  But it will happen.  You’ll be okay.”

“What…happened to me.  Why? Why?–”

Mama holds his hand.  Holds his gaze.  “You had an accident.”

“The nail…in my head?”

“Yes.  You had surgery to take that out.  Then you had to be very careful to protect your head.”

“No lifting…heavy stuff.  Or I might…get hurt.”

“Right,” Mama nods.

“But I didn’t.  Didn’t.  I–I didn’t.”

“Jesus, I know.  You’re right.  You didn’t lift anything heavy.  Do you remember being at Bayfest?”

He squints.  “No.”

“The family was all there.  Helping Callie.  And Mariana called you.  She was scared.  She said she saw Nick.”  Mama pauses.  “You went to help her.  Found Nick with her, and wanted to protect her.  He punched you back, honey.”

“In..the nail?” he asks, gesturing to his forehead.

“Yes.”

“Now I can’t…talk. Or go to…school…”

“You can talk.  Honey, you’re talking to me right now.  I understand it’s different.  It’s harder.  But you can talk.  And you will be able to go to school.”  

Jesus is silent.  Still down at the bottom of the most giant hole.  Mama’s at the top, where everything’s good.  He can’t reach her.  He can barely see her shadow.

“What do you say we have some breakfast?  Because you have to take your pill and then we need to get ready and go to the hospital,” she says, giving him a squeeze.

“You don’t,” he says softly.

“I don’t what, bud?”

“Understand.”

 

**Identification**

Jesus hates therapy.

It’s too bright.  There are too many people talking.  Doing therapy, too.  Somehow, Jesus has to listen through all the other noise.  The sights.  The smells.  And he has to hear what his own therapist is saying.

His own therapist with the damn flash cards.

The ones he still can’t read.

Things still look blurry sometimes.  Letters move around.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which.  If he’s lucky the picture holds still.  But even looking at that makes him squint.  The colors hurt his eyes.

He’s not looking at the picture side now anyway.  Just letters that move and make him dizzy.  

He’s at a table.  Mama, too, reading on her Kindle, because Jesus doesn’t like her staring.  Or encouraging.  It makes him feel like he’s in the zoo.  On display for all the things he can’t do.  Better if she just doesn’t watch.

“Jesus.  What’s this say?”

(Somebody behind him is climbing stairs and nervous about it.  Somebody else is struggling hardcore at the parallel bars.  Is he just supposed to pretend all this isn’t happening?  And that it isn’t totally distracting?)

Those words are nowhere, though, so Jesus says softly, “I hate you.”

“I know.  Let’s just take one thing at a time.  This word.”

The letters on the card don’t hold still like they should.  He has no idea what it says.  No one would, like this.  It’s not fair.  He shakes his head.

“I’m done.”

“Come on, Jesus.  This word.”

“No.”  

(This isn’t working.  And it used to.  He used to be able to do this.  Maybe he just isn’t trying hard enough.  The thought crushes him.  The headache is constant, intense.  He just needs a damn break.)

“Honey, you can do this–” Mama tries, but on top of his own pressure and the therapist, this breaks him.  He can’t read, obviously, or he wouldn’t be here.

He’s so frustrated.  It’s like this thing with his brain moved all of his feelings to right below the surface, so they come out more often, and stronger.

“Shut up!” he yells.

Mama takes a slow deep breath.  Then, she says to the therapist: “Jesus needs a break.”

When the therapist walks away, it doesn’t help much.  Everything is still loud and bright and smelly and terrible.  And he hurts.  All the time.

Mama’s still with him, but she’s quiet.  Eventually she says, “Let’s get some air.  Can I push you?” she asks.

He nods.

The wheelchair helps when he has long distances to go.  Like now.

They can’t go far, but Mama takes him to the lobby area where they are the only two people.  It’s still too bright, but not as smelly.  Not as loud.  She takes a chair next to him and just waits a bit.  Then she says:

“I know you know that saying shut up is hurtful.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I know you were frustrated.  I respect that.  I respect you.  I need to know that you respect me, too.”  Mama says honestly.

“I do,” Jesus answers.

“Okay.  I want to help.  Think about what you need right now.  Tell me whatever you can, when you can,” Mama offers.

“Less,” he starts out.

Mama just listens.  Then she asks, “Less what?” like she has all the time to just sit here with him.

“Flashcards.”

“Less flashcards…” Mama repeats, and waits some more.  He appreciates how she doesn’t jump in, assuming what he’s trying to say with plans to tell him off before he’s even done trying to get his point across.

“Less…uh…  Less things on them.”

“Less words on the flashcards?” Mama clarifies.  

Jesus nods.

“You’re not ready for words yet?  So maybe just the letter flashcards for now?”

Jesus nods, but feels defeated.  The fluorescent light above his head won’t stop buzzing and somebody somewhere is eating a Big Mac.  His head is splitting.

“Hard..” he manages, blinking tears back.

Mama covers his left hand with her own.  Their fingers lace together.

“I can’t imagine.  I’m sorry it’s hard, honey.  I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Breaks.”

“Definitely.  I can tell him when you need breaks.  I’m sorry I waited too long before.”

“And Tylenol.”

“Right.”  Mama reaches into her purse and shakes out two pills.  She hands them to him and fills a paper cup with water.

He takes them.  Wishes they worked right away, but hopefully soon.

“Hey, Jesus.  Ready to get back to work?” the therapist asks.

Jesus sends a look Mama’s way.  Hopes she’ll remember about the flashcards.

“Looking at the words is a bit much right now.  Jesus needs to backtrack a little.  Just try letters for now.  Is that possible?”

“Sure, that sounds like something we can do.”

They get back to the table.  It’s still terrible in here.  The letter flashcards make him feel small but at least he can read the E as it swerves, and then the K as it blurs.  He can read about half of them before he gets exhausted and overwhelmed again.  

By then, it’s time to go.

Jesus falls asleep in the car on the way home.

 

**Grasping**

Because it’s not enough that Jesus is devastated in the morning by his sibs going to school and that reading actual words is beyond impossible, even with his glasses, he has to do even more therapy when he gets home.  Fine motor therapy, which doesn’t even make sense.  His motor stuff is obviously not fine.

If it was, he wouldn’t have to spend boring-ass minutes trying to pick up coffee beans and pennies and putting them in containers.

The kitchen light is bright.  Mama’s talking to Emma, and they think they’re being quiet, but Jesus can still hear them whispering about some Pinterest project Mama wants to try.

“This is hard.”  

Jesus says it more to himself than to them, but Mama responds anyway, coming over.

“I know, honey, but Tomas said that it will help you with your tremor.”

He tries to force his right hand to keep a grip on the penny he’s managed to pick up, but before he can get his hand over the container, the penny drops on the table.

This is humiliating.

Even though Emma’s looking at Pinterest on her phone.  Even though Mama doesn’t comment.  It’s enough that they’re in the room with him when he screws up something so simple.

“Can I have some water?” he asks, wanting nothing more than for them to be distracted.  Focused on something that isn’t all the ways he still needs to improve.

Just like he hopes, Mama nods, and gets up, heading to the sink.  The minute she moves, he picks up the one dropped coin from the table and puts it where it goes.

Then, he takes his left hand (the one that has to stay in his lap for this exercise) and shakes all the rest of the beans and pennies off the plate.

“Hey!” Emma whispers, smiling.

“What?” he asks, picking up a spilled bean and tossing it at her.

“Don’t,” she laughs, still whispering.

She throws one back at him.  He laughs.  This feels like the most typical thing he’s done in a week.

“Oh wow…” Mama says, turning back from the sink with his glass of water.  Jesus is pretty sure she took a long time pouring it on purpose.  “That’s–that’s great.”  She sets the water down for him.

“Yeah.  I’m done,” he says.  And he is.  Hell if he’s going to keep doing this with an audience.  His self esteem can’t take the hit.

He can see Mama wants to say more, but she doesn’t.  Instead, she nods.  “Why don’t you take a break?”

Jesus is already trying to get on his feet.  He’s using the wheelchair less and less in the house.  The cane more.  But he’s not used to it yet.  Just getting up from the table is a huge deal.  The hem of his sweatshirt drags across the plate and knocks it to the floor.

“Damn it!”  In seconds, Jesus has pushed everything else off the table, too.  The sound of so many little things clattering on the floor and the containers falling makes Jesus’s head split and his ears ring.  

Grabbing the cane, he does his best to get the hell out of there and back to the living room. Mama sends Emma out, too.  They can take a break together.

He sits on the couch because it’s easier than trying to climb into the hospital bed.  Puts his head in his hands.

“What can I do?” Emma asks, after a pause.

There’s a pause on Jesus’s end, too.  All that noise.  All his anger.  It makes talking that much harder.  “No.  No.  No.  No.  N-No…” he stutters.  The only damn word that will come out.

“No?” Emma asks.

“No…big deal…” he manages, the words finally there.

“That?” Emma jerks a thumb to the kitchen.  “That wasn’t a big deal.  It was an accident.  Don’t worry about it.”

Jesus waits.  Hopes his head will stop throbbing.  He can hear Brandon and Mama talking in the kitchen.  Hears him offer to take over cleaning up Jesus’s mess.  Offer to take Jesus to therapy tomorrow if Mama needs a break.

“Your brother’s not a burden, Brandon.  And you’d need to ask Jesus if he’s okay with that,” Mama says.

Jesus closes his eyes again. She just said he wasn’t a burden but her basically agreeing with Brandon sure as hell makes Jesus feel like one.

Brandon taking him to therapy.  Since when did Brandon wanna be involved in any family stuff?  Last time Jesus checked he was living with a girl and her kid, and paying her bills with his money.

And Mama’s really leaving this up to him?  What’s Jesus supposed to say?  No?  

It’s bad enough having your mom watch you struggle but having your big brother there?  Who makes it a habit to tell you how much longer he’s lived here than you and that your own parents don’t want you?

No, thanks.

Minutes later, Brandon sticks his head in the living room and asks: “Hey.  Is it okay if I take you to therapy tomorrow?”

“Why?” Jesus asks, annoyed.

“Just wanted to help out.”

“Brandon?  Emma?  Will you let me talk to Jesus alone for a minute, please?”  Mama asks.

They clear out and leave him and Mama in the living room alone.

A weird feeling streaks through him - seeing them leave together.  It reminds him of the dream that he had while he was in his coma.  Where Jesus skated into Mama’s office in his hospital gown and found Emma kissing Brandon.  When he asked what was going on, Emma said:  “Sorry.  You’re too dumb for me.”

It still feels super real.  Like that really happened.  He wants to tell them to come back.  Don’t go anywhere together.  But Mama’s here, looking at him all serious.

“Are you okay?”

He shakes his head.

“Jesus, I know this has been a tough day for you.  Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“It was–wasn’t on purpose…” he manages.  

“I understand that.”

“So why?”

“Why, what, bud?”

“Why…do you want…Brandon…to take me?”

“I want to do whatever works for you, Jesus.  If you don’t want Brandon to take you, he doesn’t have to.  I can.  If you heard Brandon ask to take you to therapy, did you also hear me tell him you are not a burden?”

Jesus nods.

“What do you think about that?”

“I f-f-feel like one.”

“How so?” Mama asks, so honestly he has to look away.

“You said…I wasn’t…but you didn’t…you didn’t…say no…to Brandon.  You said…ask me.”

“That’s right, I did.  So the fact that I didn’t turn him down makes you feel like a burden?”

Jesus nods.

“I’m sorry.  And I’m sorry we had that conversation away from you.  We should have had it all together.  I thought that by leaving it up to you, I was giving you a choice.”

“N-n-no choice.  If you…want him to help…and I say no…then what?”

“We’ll work it out.”

Jesus brings a hand down forcefully on the end table.  

“Take a deep breath for me,” Mama coaches.  “I can see you’re frustrated.  I’m here.  I want to listen.  I have time.”

Jesus tries to breathe.

“What if…?” he starts.  “What if he…  I mean…  I don’t…”

“Are you worried about how Brandon will react?” Mama guesses.

Jesus nods.

“Would you feel better if I asked him to find something else to do once he’s there?  Not to hover?”

Jesus doesn’t move.

So Mama waits, too.

“Not ready…” he confides.  “I’m not ready…”

“For Brandon?” Mama wonders.

He nods.

“You’re not ready for Brandon to take you yet?”

Nods again.

“Okay.  That’s fine, honey.  I can take you.”

“No…  Too much.  I’m too much,” Jesus protests.

“You have a right to your feelings.  They’re yours and they are valid.  But accepting an offer of help doesn’t mean you’re too much.  Not to me.”

“If I was…okay…you wouldn’t need help.”

“Mom and I have help all the time, Jesus.  No one goes through life alone.  You and Mariana help each other, right?”

“Because…we can’t…alone.  It’s too hard.”

“Right.  Nobody can alone, bud.  It’s–”

“I’m too hard.”

Mama’s quiet.  Then she puts her arms around him.  “I’m so sorry it feels that way, Jesus.”  She presses a kiss to his temple.  “Because you are so easy to love.”

“Not…anymore…”

“Do you feel that?  Unlovable?” Mama asks, surprised.

Jesus nods.  “Not me.  Anymore.”

“You don’t feel like yourself.  You feel different.  So, it’s no wonder you feel unloveable now.  This you hasn’t gotten nearly enough love.”  

Mama sits with him.  Holds on.

“Do you…love me now?” Jesus asks.

“Honey, I never stopped.  I loved the person you were before.  And I love the person you are now.”

“I get mad…” Jesus ventures.  “Yell.”

“And it makes sense.  You have reasons when you yell.  It doesn’t make you bad.  It doesn’t make you less.”

“Even though..I can’t read…”

Mama cocks her head.

“You love me?”

“Yes.”  

He likes that she doesn’t hesitate.  That she stays.  That she keeps holding onto him.  

But it’s gonna take a while for the love to build.  

For Jesus to feel okay in this new skin.

 

**Coping**

Mama promised to drive Jesus to PT herself today, but after everybody leaves, she sits down and talks to him, saying she’s sorry, but plans have changed.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Mom and I have to meet with Callie and her lawyer this morning.  It’s important.  That means you need someone else to take you to therapy.”

“Brandon,” he sighs.

“I was thinking so, yes.  I know you told me yesterday that you weren’t ready to have Brandon drive you.  I don’t imagine that’s changed overnight.”

Jesus shakes his head.

“So, I wanted to talk to you first, about talking to Brandon.”

“About…what?” Jesus wonders.

“Things he should know.  Whatever you think those are.  I want you to be comfortable with this.  Or as close as you can be.  So you can take some time.  Think about this.  And tell me whenever you have an idea.”

“Don’t…don’t…don’t…don’t–”  he tries.  Just thinking about this one is stressing Jesus out.  It has since yesterday.  It’s why he doesn’t feel good about Brandon being the one to take him.

“I’m listening, Jesus.  Don’t what?” Mama asks, patient.

“Don’t um…don’t…” he tries again.  And again.  Nothing works.

Mama waits.  Finally, she speaks up again.

“Do you want to keep trying?”

He shakes his head.  This isn’t working.

“Would it help if I made a suggestion, and you can tell me yes or no?” she wonders.

Jesus nods, relieved.

“Would you like me to tell him to bring something else to do?  Not to stare or say too much while you’re working?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”  She pauses.  Makes a note in her phone.  “Would you like me to tell him to pay attention and back you up when you need a break?  Should I tell him what words you say so he knows to listen for them?”

Jesus nods again.  He’s still thinking, though.  About the first thing.  That Mama hasn’t mentioned.

“Is there more you’d like me to include?” Mama asks.

Another nod.

Mama just watches him and waits.  She’s great at being patient.  It helps him not to feel stressed.  Even though this is still hard to say.  Embarrassing.  And actually hard because of his brain.  It’s a good thing he takes about two naps a day.  And sleeps in.

“Scared,” he admits.

Mama leans closer.  Holds his hand.

“Don’t want him to…say things…to me…” Jesus says and takes a deep breath.  “Things…like…he’s smart.  I’m not.”

“You’re saying you don’t want Brandon making fun of you.  Is that right?” Mama checks, putting her arms around him.  “You’re scared he’ll tease you?”

Jesus nods, feeling super small.

“So, I’m going to tell Brandon that making fun of you cannot happen.  That it’s against the rules.  Because it is.  We don’t mock each other in this family.”

“He does.” Jesus protests, quiet.

Mama’s eyes widen.  “He had better not.”

“He says…he lived here more than us.  That you…and Mom…took us in when our mom…didn’t want us.”

Mama looks disapproving.

“Tell him not to?”

“Absolutely.  I’ll tell him not to.  He should know better than to tell you two things like that.  That’s very rude and hurtful and untrue.  You three have lived in this house the exact same amount of time.  And your mom did want you.  She just couldn’t take care of you.”

“C-Can you?” he asks.

“Can I?” she echoes, a question.

“Take care of me?  Now that…I’m different.  Not me.  Too much.”

“You are not too much, Jesus.  Mom and I love you very much.  This you right now.  We love you and we can take care of you.”

“You can…return me…Callie said before…about her.”  

Jesus knows that Callie and Brandon talked a crap-ton about the possibility of her adoption being reversed when she did something.  .She checked into it.  It’s real.  They could just decide to undo this  It could be like his nightmare.

Mama takes his face in her hands.  Looks at him hard.  Starts speaking, soft but firm:

“We are not returning you.  You are our son.  We love you.”

“Later?” he checks.

“We’re not returning you now.  Not later.  Not ever.  Plans changed today.  That doesn’t mean we would ever want to give you back.”  She wraps her arms around him.

It doesn’t really sink in.  Just skates on the surface of his skin.

(Because what if they change their mind?)

He thinks of the empty house.  How unnerving it was to be there.  Everything blank.  Everyone gone.  No way to find them.

Mama holds him for a while, but then she has to go get Brandon.  So they can all talk together.

–

The drive to St. Michael’s is quiet, but Jesus doesn’t mind.  Riding in the car makes him dizzy, so he just tries to sleep.  He’s glad Mama mentioned that Brandon should load the wheelchair, because he’s already so exhausted.  This will save him energy.  He’ll be more tired soon enough.

Once they park, Brandon gets out, and unloads the chair first.  Then he opens Jesus’s door and helps him out.  He’s still dizzy from the car and fuzzy from sleeping.

“Ready?  Want me to push?” Brandon asks.

Jesus nods.

He doesn’t have to talk much here.  He just has to do stuff.  Today, he has the helmet, and the glasses and the stupid belt on all together.  He’s on the parallel bars, taking steps.  

It’s noisy in here, and hard to concentrate.  But at least Brandon’s not staring or trying to cheer him on.  He’s on his phone, but close enough that he can hear what’s going on.  Like Mama said.

Now there’s something on the ground.  He has to step on it.  It gives under his right foot and makes everything move.  It takes all his energy.  Feels like he has no center of balance.  He’s just stuck in this weird ass position.  (He already did this once, and it sapped him.)  He has nothing left.

People are working all around him.  It’s loud as hell.  Would they notice if he fell?  Would they point and laugh?  Maybe not the ones like him.  But maybe Brandon.  Jesus risks a look at him.

“Come on, Jesus, stay focused,” the PT says.

“It’s hard!” he exclaims.

“It is.  You did this once.  Let’s try for twice, huh?”

He’s shaking and all sweaty.  He’s gonna fall.

“Help…” he manages.

“I’ve got you.  You’re not gonna fall.  Focus on putting your weight on this leg.  Push down to the ground.”

But it doesn’t feel like there is ground.  That’s the whole problem.  In this position, he can’t anchor himself.  He’s got all his weight on his arms, and his right is about ready to give out.

Just like that, Brandon’s there, between the bars, too.  In front of him.  

“Can you finish?” he asks.  “If I stand here?”

Jesus doesn’t have extra energy to talk, but Brandon being where he can see him does give Jesus a little more confidence.  He glances at the floor.  Tries to get his right side to cooperate.  Finally, it finds the foor.  His other leg can swing through.  He can make it to the chair at the end.  Brandon ducks out.  Jesus all but collapses in it.

By the end of PT, Jesus is spent.

Brandon helps him back into the car.  Loads the chair.  Gets in.

“I know you’re tired right now.  Maybe after you get some sleep, I can talk to you about something, though?” he asks.

Jesus nods.  Then, he falls asleep against the window.

–

When they park, Brandon shakes him awake but not hard.

“Hey.  We’re back.”

Jesus feels like he just closed his eyes.  It’s all he can do to get in the house before he makes it to the bed in the living room and falls asleep again.

When he wakes up for real, Brandon’s still there.

“Creepy…” Jesus tells him.

“Just because I’m watching you sleep?” Brandon asks, but he’s smiling a little.  “Listen, I didn’t know if this was a great time to talk.”

Jesus nods.  It’s as good a time as any.

“I was looking at stuff on my phone earlier, about how music can help the brain make new connections…”

Jesus ducks his head.  Here it comes.

“So I was wondering…if you wanted me to teach you piano?”

Glancing up, Jesus’s brow furrows.

He seriously has so much going on right now.  He doesn’t have a spare second to learn piano on top of everything else.  But…it might be cool to do something that doesn’t feel like therapy.

“Emma?” he asks.  Because it would be boring as hell to learn alone, but she can make anything fun.

“Sure, Emma, too, if she wants.  We can ask when she comes over after school.”

 

**Playing**

Emma agrees.

So, she and Jesus sit next to each other at the piano.  Brandon’s been teaching them ‘Row Row Row your Boat’ for…a while.

If it’s possible, Emma’s worse at this than Jesus is.  The truth is in Brandon’s praise, which he can’t fake, especially if he’s teaching music.

“There you go.  That’s it, Jesus.  That’s great.  Emma, not so much…but it’s okay.”  They all laugh.  And Jesus can see Mama out of the corner of his eye.  

“Brandon’s..teaching Emma…to play piano…” Jesus tells her, a smile on his face.

“I see that,” Mama nods.  She seems happy.  “Emma, how’s it going?”

“Um…pretty terrible,” Emma admits, laughing.  

“Try it again, guys.  Try it again,” Brandon urges.

So they start over.  Jesus can’t stop laughing, because Emma keeps messing up.  They play it through again, and she says, “You’re so good!”

“You’re so bad!” he laughs.

Brandon cues them to start again, even counting them off this time.  When they start to play, he says, “That’s good, that’s good, and Emma, just make sure you keep your hands here…” he touches her hand.  “…and there…when you go all the way from the top.  That’s good.  There you go.  Just like that.  Got it?”

Emma laughs and says yeah.  

“All right.  Let’s start over.  You’re doing good,” he says, patting Jesus on the shoulder, so he feels like an afterthought.

It’s not that he wants to be corrected.  It’s that seeing Brandon touching Emma.  Seeing her laughing?  It reminds him so much of his dream.  Where they were making out.  

She would be happier with a guy like Brandon.

Not a guy like him.

It makes Jesus’s heart sink.

They play again.  But it’s not fun anymore.

 

**Deception**

After the piano, Jesus falls asleep again.  The house is quiet, so he sleeps a long time.  

When he wakes up, his heart starts beating fast.  He’s all alone.  For a second, it feels exactly like his dream.  Except the house isn’t bare inside.  It still has all his family’s stuff.  So maybe they didn’t leave him.

Hopefully…

“Hey…” he calls out.  

Usually the intercom feels like a huge invasion of his privacy.  Knowing Moms can hear everything he says.  Everything he and Mariana talk about.  It forces them to stick to surface stuff, unless they wanna whisper.  Which they had when he told her he can’t read anymore.  Even though Moms already know about that, it’s still embarrassing.  And Jesus doesn’t want anybody else in the house knowing.

Now, he finds himself hoping that someone’s on the other end of the intercom.  Still in the house.  That they didn’t leave him here alone.

Time drags.  For all of it, Jesus feels himself pulled back through time.  To that memory of being cold.  Hungry.  Dirty.  And so scared.  At least then he’d had Mariana with him.  Now he has no one.

Footsteps.

Emma.

Then Brandon.

What were they doing upstairs together?  Why does Emma look so upset?

Jesus spreads his arms, because too many questions are crowding in at the same time (Where were they?  Why?  What’s wrong with Emma?  Did something happen?  Is it his fault?)

“Hey.  Sorry.  We’re back,” Brandon says, holding up the other end of the intercom.

Jesus’s eyes flicker to them.  He can see how they stand close.  The way Brandon looks at her like he knows something about why she’s crying.

“Okay?” he asks, looking Emma in the eyes.

“Yeah.  I mean no, but yeah.  I will be.”

And Jesus gets that she’s somehow managed to tell him the truth and lie to his face all at once.

–

Later, when Moms get home with groceries, Emma’s acting like nothing happened earlier.

“You got a ton of cards from both the volleyball teams.”  She tosses one at him.  Laughs.  Then she says, “Check out this one from Laurel.”

Panic has him swatting away the card.  Emma doesn’t know he can’t read.  Moms promised he can be in charge of who he tells, and he has not wanted to tell Emma.  He didn’t even want to tell Mariana, to be honest, it just sort of came up in conversation, and he ended up telling her.

“Y– Y– You have too much makeup on.”

She doesn’t.  And besides that, Jesus knows that he is the last person who gets a say over her body.  But he knows how to piss her off.  Needs to drive her away.  Before she finds out that he really is too dumb for her after all.

“God, Jesus…” she says, hurt.

“W-Well, I’m tired.  You sh– You should go.”

He turns away from her.  Stays still until he hears her stand up.  Leave.

It’s his biggest fear.

But better for her to leave now, when he’s ready, than for her to find out the truth when he isn’t.

People leaving unexpectedly is the worst.

At least this way, Jesus can see it coming.

–

That night, when Mariana’s sleeping a few feet from him, Jesus reaches out for his glasses.  Puts them on.  Then, for Laurel’s card.  It takes way longer than it used to.  To reach.  To pick up the card he wants.  To bring it toward him.  

But he does it.  

He closes his eyes.  Wills the glasses to work this time.  

Jesus opens his eyes.  Looks at the card.

Everything moves.

Even the short message is impossible to read.

It feels like Jesus maybe made some progress crawling out of that depression pit.  Piano hadn’t been all bad at first.  But now, it’s like he’s just sliding back down.  And no one even knows to look for him here.

Devastated, he tries to breathe.  Tries to destroy the damn card but his hand won’t let him.

So even though he wants to be quiet, so Mariana can sleep, his sadness is right at the surface too, and he can’t keep it in.  

Taking off the glasses is the final straw.

He sobs.  Covers his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Laurel’s stupid card.

Fear and hopelessness rip through him.  

(Is it always gonna be like this?  Will he ever be able to feel like himself?)

He thinks of all the things he’s losing.  All the things that gave him identity:

Skateboarding.  Volleyball.  Construction.  Being Emma’s boyfriend.  Mariana’s protector.

All of it.  Gone.

All of a sudden, the bed beside him gives.  Arms are around him.  Someone’s here with him.  Hugging him.  But not trying to fix this.  Not saying anything at all.

Mariana.

She just holds on.  And breathes.

And it’s still lonely.  He loves her as much as it’s possible to love anybody, but he’s jealous as hell of her, too.  None of this is easy.

He’s so different.

But for now, at least, he’s not alone.

He holds on tight to her.  


	3. Sex Ed

**Missing**

Dinner is ridiculously overwhelming.

Everybody talks at the same time.  Callie’s proud of her senior project.  Mom’s are proud of her, too.  But Jesus can’t take his eyes off Mama, sitting next to him, cutting his meat.

He needs help.  And no one says anything. But it’s still something Jesus is used to doing on his own.  Needing to rely on Moms this way feels different.  Intense.  Vulnerable.  He doesn’t like it.

Eventually, he looks at Callie, trying to ignore Mama cutting his food.

And then leans toward Brandon, asking: “Hey.  Did you see Emma today?”  (Mom’s explaining to Jude something about Callie’s lawyers and a deal.)

“Uh, yeah,” Brandon says.  “At school.”

“Did she look…okay?  Did she…go home…sick?” he asks because Emma’s basically disappeared.

Jesus hasn’t seen or heard from her since he drove her away so she wouldn’t find out about his hard time reading.  He’d wanted her to go away.  To stop asking.  But not forever.  He doesn’t want the last thing he says to her to be a rude comment on her looks.

Brandon seems cagey.  Like he knows something but isn’t saying.  He’s been like this for days.

“Honey, she’s been here every day since you got home.  She must’ve been feeling pretty funky,” Mama offers.

“Yeah,” he offers.  (Jesus is distracted.  Mariana’s talking to Mom about how if rich guys can buy their way out of jail, does that mean Nick’s gonna get out.  Jesus feels his heart speed up.  He remembers the dream.  Nick.  The gun.  Mariana falling.  The funeral.  Moms blaming him.)

“I’m pretty sure she’ll be here tomorrow,” Brandon offers, still nervous.  (Now Mariana’s talking about needing to protect herself.  Mom’s offering self-defense class for her and Callie.  It’s not a bad idea.)

But Mariana says no.  She’s still traumatized from Mom teaching her to drive.

Then the conversation switches to health class.  Jesus can barely keep up.  They’re talking about condoms and fruit.  Nasty.  

Jude’s asking why they don’t have gay sex ed.  Mama’s phone is vibrating.  Jesus feels so tired and not that hungry.  But excusing himself from the table in the middle of the meal would probably be more trouble (and more energy) than he has right now.  So he sits.

Mom speaks up and changes the subject.  (She’s grossed out by Mariana’s slimy condom talk.)  “Jesus, now that you can manage the steps, Mama and I were thinking about having you move into Brandon’s room for a bit.”

“For real?” he asks, looking to Brandon.

Instead of hulking out, Brandon’s looking like he got caught cheating on a test.  “Yeah.  I mean, the hospital bed’s too big for your room…I’ll just crash with Jude for a while…” he hedges.

“Okay, well, we’ll need your help moving stuff around, Brandon, all right?  So don’t go vanishing on us.  Yes?” Mom asks.

Mom using the word  _vanishing_ makes Jesus think of Emma.  Here every single day, and today, gone without even a heads up.  He wonders if whatever it is has to do with her and Brandon, and why Brandon’s acting all guilty?

Or if Jesus really did just do too good a job at driving her away…

 

**Rejection**

When Emma comes back, she pretends that nothing happened, but Jesus can feel the difference.  The distance.

Still, he missed her.  And when he invites her to lie down in bed with him, she agrees.  It’s good to be close to her again.

He wants to apologize for the thing he said about her face, but bringing it up might mean her asking why he said it.  He’ll just have to show her.  Like Grams said.  Show her exactly what he’s good at.

And he’s so good at this.

“I finally got a room to myself…” he thinks out loud.  “About time.”  He leans in.  Kisses her softly.

“Slow your roll there, Foster,” Emma says.

Jesus stops.  “You wanna…help me with some…physical therapy?” he asks.

She doesn’t look him in the eye.  “I’m…not really in the mood…” she hedges.

Damn it.  He shouldn’t have called it physical therapy.  Too late now.

“Are you hungry?  Why don’t I make you a sandwich?” she offers and she is out of there, leaving Jesus behind in the bed, before he can even say if he wants a sandwich or not.  (He doesn’t.  These anti-seizure meds make food taste weird.)

It’s like she can’t even wait to get away from him.  She probably can’t, now that he’s like this.  Nothing works like it should.  He’s dizzy with a headache all the time.  Tired but he can’t sleep.  When he mentioned it to Moms, they told him those were side-effects, too.  And to keep them updated if anything got worse.

Jesus doesn’t know how much worse anything is supposed to get before he tells them about it.  He tried telling them about it.  And when they just said come back and tell us again?  Well, it kinda feels like that’s the reaction he can expect from them for now on.

It’s been a long time since Emma left.  He picks up his phone and presses the button for voice-to-text.  Says, “What are you doing?” and clicks send.

When he gets a text back, Siri reads it to him:

Emma sent:  _Was just talking to Brandon.  Be right up_.

This is just getting worse and worse.  If they’re a thing - if she’d rather be with Brandon than with him - she should just tell him.  Or Brandon should.  It’s better than lying to him all the time and sneaking around behind his back.

The idea of losing Emma, too, makes Jesus nervous as hell.  If he loses her, it’s only one more step closer to losing his family, too.  If Emma doesn’t want him anymore, why should they?

Siri asks if he wants to reply, but he doesn’t.

What would he say, anyway?

 

**Losing**

Jesus thinks things might be getting better again.

First, when Emma gets back and he doesn’t touch his sandwich, she asks him about it.

“Not that hungry.  I didn’t want anything.  But you didn’t wait…for me to answer,” he admits, still quiet.  Still feeling like everybody’s last choice.

Emma sighs and gets back in bed with him.  Looks him in the eye.  “I’m sorry.  I should have waited for you to answer.”  She kisses him, but it feels weird.  Too quick or casual.  Like he doesn’t matter.

Maybe he’s reading into things.  Still, he feels desperate to make things right.  So he should apologize, too.

“Sorry for the thing I said,” he offers.  “About your face.  I didn’t mean it.  I didn’t mean…you should go away…”

“The other day?”

He nods.

“Oh, I know,” Emma reassures.  “But thank you.  So…you wanna come downstairs with me?  Play some piano?”

“What about…Brandon?”

“He’s at the open house.  He shouldn’t be back for a while,” Emma says.  “But your mom’s here,” she adds.

“Okay.”  Jesus agrees.  It’s a chance for them to just hang out together.  No pressure.  She walks with him down the stairs.  Holds onto his belt.  Doesn’t comment on his helmet.  His glasses.  His cane.

It’s a relief when they get downstairs and the living room is empty.  No hospital bed.  No Brandon to compete with.

They work for a while - still trying to master Row Row Row Your Boat.  Jesus gets to the last notes.  Plays them right.  Emma laughs:

“You’re doing better than me.  Let’s try again.  Okay?”

The door opens behind them.

“Hey!” Brandon says, Jesus’s nerves are back, full force.

“Why aren’t you at the open house?” Emma wonders.  (Jesus is wondering the same thing.  That is where Brandon said he’d be, after all.)

“I made an appearance, just a very brief one,” Brandon stands between them, and just behind them.  “Sounded like you two made it to the end of the song.  Let’s take it from the top.  See if you can do it all at once.”  

Brandon’s acting like he’s totally responsible for their making it to the end of the song when he wasn’t even here.  They don’t even need his help.  It’s just an excuse to be next to Emma.

“I’m done,” Jesus says, defeated.  “Piano’s too hard.”  (Why try at anything if nothing he does is ever gonna be good enough again?)

“I hear you.  Everything is hard when you’re first learning it,” Brandon tries.  (Like he would know anything about piano being hard.  About life being hard.  Everything comes so easy for him.)

“Yeah.  You did great though, Jesus,” Emma jumps in and he can’t help it.  Jesus just feels smaller and smaller.

And his impatience with them is getting bigger and bigger.

“Why don’t you two just get a room, huh?” he challenges.

“What are you talking about?” Emma asks.  She sounds surprised.

Jesus can’t help but talk over her.  To ask, “What?  Do you think I’m stupid?  You’re screwing my brother!”

“No, she’s not!” Brandon denies.

“That is not true!” Emma exclaims at the same time.

“That’s why y-you don’t want…sex with me!” Jesus insists.

“Jesus!”

“Of course, you want Brandon!  I mean, he’s smart!  Right?!”

_Sorry.  You’re too dumb for me_ …  dream Emma says in his head.  Only, it’s not a dream anymore.  It’s true.  They’re doing it.

“Okay. You’re obviously angry,” Brandon tries.

(The cup of water is there, right by his hand.  Right where Mom left it after he took his pill this morning.  He doesn’t think, he just reacts.  Swipes the cup onto the floor where it spills and makes Emma and Brandon both jump back.)

“Hey, hey, hey!  What is going on in here?” Mom asks.  Her voice is low.  Calm.

Jesus turns on her.  “You and Mama know!”

“What?”

He shakes her hand off his arm.  Doesn’t need her touching him.  Not now.  Not ever.

(First Emma.  Then everybody else.  Then just him in the empty house alone, because he’s too much now.)

“You want…Brandon to have her!  Because you always…want…Brandon…to have  _everything_!”

Mom has him by the shoulders.  Mariana’s here.  Brandon and Emma are just standing, not saying anything.

“Brandon and Mariana, upstairs please.  Come on.  Let’s go.”

Jesus can hear them start to move.  Can hear Mom say, “Look at me.  Look at me.”  But he can’t right now.  Not like this.  Nobody’s gone yet.  Jesus can feel his body shaking with how angry he is.  With how exhausted he is.  Standing still is hard.  His leg feels like it might give out.  It’s twitching again.  

Finally, Mariana moves to leave.  Brandon follows her and Jesus can’t tear his eyes away from his ass of a brother.

“Hey, Emma, sweetheart?  Why don’t you head home for a bit, okay?” Mom urges.

“Right.  Of course.”  Emma says.  She’s on her way past them.

“I need you to take a deep breath for me,” Mom encourages.  

But Jesus can’t do anything.  He’s using every ounce of strength he has to keep standing.  When he hears Emma open the door to leave, Jesus goes down.

Breaks down.

 

**Breaking**

“Are you okay?  Jesus?” Mom asks, all hyper.

But he can’t answer.  The door closes.  Mom’s down beside him, and he’s wrapped an arm around her waist.  She’s holding on around his body.  One hand on the back of his neck.

“You okay?  Jesus?”

And he still can’t answer.

Because the tears are here and he can’t stop them.  Just like he couldn’t stop the anger.  

He can’t control anything.

And he’s losing everything.

“Oh, my baby.  Talk to me,” Mom says, her grip softening from scared to loving.

“I don’t know…” he manages.

So she holds him.  They sit like that for a long time.  He can’t stop crying.  He hates needing her like this.  Especially when he’s so sure it’s gonna end.  She’s gonna think better of keeping him.

He tries to push her away, but all his strength is just gone.  

Mom lets go and looks at him.  

He looks back.  Raw.

“Make…me go…” he gasps.

“Make you go where, love?” Mom wonders.

He nods to the door.

“Why?” she asks.

He gestures weakly at the water all over the floor.

Mom takes his face between her hands.  “No.  That doesn’t matter.   _You_ matter.”

He looks away from her.  

Jesus can’t explain it.  He’s just convinced that it will happen.  Ana couldn’t take care of him and Mariana when they were just regular babies.  Now, how can he expect Moms to want to keep him when he needs so much money?  So much time?  And he feels like so much less?  When he feels so not worth it?

“I’m…too much…  Not me.  This me…is too much.”

“You…” Mom says, waiting for him to look at her again.  “Are enough.  This you, right now.”

He shakes his head.  “I…” he gestures again to the spilled water.  Feels so weak.  So small.

“You were upset.  Right?  You feel like Brandon and Emma were lying to you?”

He nods.

“Like we were all lying to you?”

Nods again.

“Why?  What happened that made you think that?”

“My coma…” he mutters after a long pause.  He takes her hands off his face.  Crosses his arms.

She wraps her arms around him anyway.  “Your coma?” she asks.

“They were….t-t-together.  She said…I was…too dumb for her…” he manages.

“You had a dream while you were in your coma,” Mom clarifies.  

He nods.

“I see.  And now Brandon and Emma are behaving in a way that maybe has you wondering?  Yes?”

“Yes,” he nods.

“That must feel very scary.  Like betrayal.  Hmm?” she asks, her head resting on his head.

“Yeah…” he whispers.

They sit together for a long time.  Jesus is spent.  He has no energy left.  But he knows if he doesn’t tell Mom now, he never will.

“You left,” he says, so softly, he’s sure she won’t hear.

“What?”

“Brandon and Emma…before that…you left,” he tries.

“In your dream?” Mom checks.

He nods.

“Everybody…was gone…  This house…was blank…and the lady said…you moved.  Said ‘ _One less m-m-mouth to feed, right?_ ’  She said I should go.  I don’t…live here anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mom hugs him hard.  “That sounds like an awful dream, Jesus.  But you do live here.  With us.  We won’t leave you.”

“Maybe…if I’m too much.  If…it’s too hard…to care now…”

“Jesus.  You are not too much.  It is not too hard to take care of you.  It’s not too hard to care about you.  To love you.”

“But I’m…different…”

“Yes.  You are.  You’re adjusting to something new.  You feel different.  Your body works differently.  Your brain is making all kinds of new pathways.  And I love you.”

“Mad…” he manages, his voice thick again.

“Whatever you are feeling…whenever you are feeling it…it makes sense, love.”

“It does?”

“It does.  And it’s okay to feel your feelings.  It’s okay to be mad.”

“Not that,” he points with his chin to the mess on the floor.

“No.  You’re right.  But I understand that stress was very high for you then.  And with your emotions just at the surface and with not being heard?  With feeling disrespected?  All those things make it harder to speak.”

Jesus ducks his head.  Even though Mom’s voice is super gentle it’s still embarrassing that she has so much info on how he struggles.

“I’m sorry, love.  I didn’t mean to embarrass you.  I just wanted you to know that it makes sense.  Even that,” she gestures to the spilled water.  

Another big pause.

“What do you need right now?”

He shrugs.  He needs sleep, but he’s so damn nervous about everything that everytime he tries, he can’t.

“Lie down for a bit?” Mom asks.

He shakes his head.  “Not up…  Not…  I mean…”

“Maybe here on the couch?” she asks, picking up on his anxiety.  Anything related to Brandon right now just makes him beyond stressed out.

He nods.

She helps him stand and walks him in a wide arc around the water on the floor.  He sits on the couch.  Then lies down.

Mom sits, too, holding his hand.

“Don’t…leave…” he begs, his eyes falling closed.

“I won’t.  I’ll be right here with you, love.”


	4. The Long Haul

**Retreating**

Another night, eating dinner with the fam (plus two, now that Grandma and Will are here.)  It’s only slightly easier to filter what’s going on because everybody’s taking turns for the most part.  And Will just casually mentioned that he asked Grandma to marry him at some RV party.

When Will suggests they go down and get married at the courthouse, Mariana says it’s gross.  They should get married here.

“Mariana, I’m very busy with my new job,” Mom says.

“Mama’s not busy,” Mariana interjects.

“Yes, I am, honey.  I have a lot to do around the house, and driving you guys all the places you need to go.”

Jesus feels the weight of her words.  Even though Mama doesn’t say it’s taking him to therapy, specifically, that’s keeping her busy, Jesus feels it.  If he didn’t have to be at home like this, Mama could be back at work.  Things could be normal.  She could just be her regular amount of busy.

“I’m not going…anymore…”  Jesus offers.

“To therapy?  Wait.  Did I miss something?  I thought you were…” Mariana says.

“No, I’m not.”

“Jesus,” Mom says softly.  “Do you need to talk in the other room?”

He nods.

It takes some time, but eventually, he and Mom are in the living room together.  She just waits.  Jesus can still hear all the noise in the kitchen.  He doesn’t feel good.  Hasn’t for a while.  Everything bothering him Moms say is a side-effect from the pills he has to take.

“You said you’re not going to therapy anymore?” Mom cues eventually.

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m done.  It’s not…helping.”

“You’re frustrated that you’re not seeing progress?” she checks.

Jesus nods.  “I still…can’t read.  Still…need the cane.”

“You must feel pretty defeated, love,” she says honestly.

Jesus nods.  Then confesses:  “If I don’t go…Mama won’t be busy…”

“It is not your job to take care of us, my baby.  It is our job to take care of you.  Reading is something you want to be able to do again, yes?  And walking, maybe without a cane?”

Jesus nods.

“It is our job as your parents to make sure you get what you need.  Right now, you need therapy, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So, Mama is making sure you get there.”  

Jesus shrugs.  Knowing that doesn’t change his super slow recovery speed.

“How about this?” Mom asks, holding his hand.  “I hear that you’re frustrated.  You’re burned out.  Working hard but not seeing results yet.  So what do you say, you take this weekend?  Take it really easy.  Rest.  I know you haven’t been feeling the greatest.  And then, on Monday, you try again.”

Jesus’s head is spinning.  Aching.  All Mom’s words and all the words from the kitchen are everywhere and he can’t listen to all of it at the same time.

“No,” he manages, head in his hands.

“Too much right now?” she asks.

Jesus nods his head.

“Okay.  I’m sorry,” she says.

Mom wraps her arms around him.  Just sits with him.  While he feels terrible in this holding pattern of side-effects and never getting better and being exhausted.

“Driving you is not too much,” she whispers.  “Loving you is not too much.  Do you know that?”

He can’t help it.  He shrugs.  It still feels like way too much.

“It’s not.  Not one bit too much.  We love you.  We are family.  We’re not leaving you.”

Jesus closes his eyes.  Wonders how Mom knows just what he’s thinking.

–

Jesus takes Mom at her word and spends the weekend in bed watching YouTube videos.  Those don’t take any energy to watch.  He watches videos about dudes building treehouses.  He remembers being a kid here.  With Stef and Lena.  Where they could actually be kids.

Where climbing a tree could mean escaping your problems, even for a bit.

His phone chimes with a text.  Jesus has Siri read it to him:

_Emma sent:  I have something I need to tell you…but I’m not sure I should._

“Hey,” Brandon’s in the doorway.  “You feel okay?”

“No,” Jesus admits.  He still feels terrible.  Being still and staying in bed is the only way he feels remotely okay.

“Need anything?” Brandon presses.

“Emma just…texted me.”

“Yeah?”

Jesus holds out the phone to show Brandon.  “Do you know…what she…needs to tell me?”

“No,” Brandon says the same way he used to tell Stef that he didn’t make any of the mess in the room they used to share.  That it was all Jesus.  

He’s about to call Brandon out, when another thought is there, and out of his mouth in no time: “Do you think…she wants to break up with me?”

“No,” This, Brandon sounds sure of.  “Do you want me to stay?  In case she texts again?”

“No, it’s okay,” Jesus sighs.  His need to figure out what’s going on with Emma and Brandon has taken a backseat to Jesus’s feeling like crap.  Maybe when he feels better, he’ll be able to get some answers out of Brandon.

He texts Emma back, speaking into his phone:

“You can tell me anything.”  

Then, he clicks send.

–

Dinner is seriously nasty.  Grilled carrots.  As if Jesus wasn’t feeling bad enough already.  Will keeps talking about the wedding they’re now definitely having in the yard.  Brandon asks if Jesus is inviting Emma.  Jesus says yeah even though he’s not sure if she’ll want to come.

She still hasn’t texted back.

“Knock, knock.”  This time it’s Grandma.  “I got a bunch of meds your mom sent up for you.  I’ll tell ya, with all those prescriptions, you’d fit in with some of my friends…”  

Jesus laughs and takes the pills, even though he’s sure they’re making him feel worse, not better.

“How’re you feeling?” Grandma asks, sitting down with him.

“Okay,” he offers, not wanting to scare her off with the truth.  “I mean…I have a headache and I’m always dizzy…but other than that…”

“I’m sorry you’re feeling so rough, kiddo.  I can get out of your way so you can rest.”

She’s about to get up, when Jesus takes her hand.  “Grandma?”

“What is it?”

Jesus thinks for a bit.  How much does he want to say?

“I’m nervous…” he admits.  “About Emma.”

“You two having trouble?” she asks, settling back on the bed.

“Kinda?  I don’t know.  She texted that she has to tell me something but she doesn’t know if she should.  I said it was okay…but she didn’t text again.”

His phone chimes.

He picks it up and Siri reads a text from Emma:

_Emma sent: Ask Brandon._

“Well, speak of the devil…” Grandma says, raising an eyebrow at him.

Jesus groans and lies back on the bed.  “She’s breaking up with me.  I knew it.”

“Hey, now.  Hold on.  Why would you say that?”

“‘Cause…she’s acting weird…  Avoiding me…  Hanging out with…Brandon.  I think…they’re together…”

“A lot’s changed over the past week or two, hasn’t it?” Grandma asks.

“Yeah.”

“It’s taken you some time to adjust, right?”

Jesus nods.

“Maybe it’s taking her some time, too.  It’s possible she just needs a minute to take in everything, and that once she has, she’ll come around more often again.”

“You sure?”

“Well, don’t quote me on that.  But it’s my hope.”

“Thanks, Grandma,” he says.

This time, when she gets up to leave, he lets her go.

When she’s gone, Jesus picks up his phone and texts Emma back:

“I’m not mad.  I do kinda wish you had just told me.  But I’m not mad.  I totally understand, and we definitely don’t need to talk about it.  And I love you, too.”

 

**Attention**

When Emma comes over the afternoon of Grandma’s wedding, Jesus almost can’t breathe.  She’s so beautiful.  

They talk.

She’s checks if he’s okay.

He does the same.

They hug.

It feels like everything’s good again.  Maybe.

They walk together around the table outside.  Jesus notices the place cards that tell everybody where to sit.  He doesn’t expect to be able to read them.  

“So, I know you said that we don’t need to talk about it, but you did talk to Brandon, right?  He told you?”

“Yeah.  We talked.”  (Emma doesn’t need to know that Grandma subbed for Brandon.  It’s no big deal.  The message is the same.  He’s sure.)

“So, you’re really okay?  With this?  With everything?” she presses.

Jesus sighs.  It’s not like he wants to be reminded of all the ways he’s different and how hard it is.  “Can we please just stop talking about it?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re good.”

“Yeah,” she nods, but doesn’t seem sure.  “I don’t see our cards,” she says, glancing back down at the table.

“Yeah, me neither.”

“I hope we’re sitting together.”  That makes Jesus feel better.

Emma comes around so they’re standing side by side.  Jesus is distracted, trying to read the cards on each plate.

So far, no luck.

“Jesus. Come here with me?” Emma asks.

He glances up and nods.  She finds them a spot to sit where nobody is.  (Not easy as it’s super crowded.)

“You were standing right next to our cards,” she tells him quietly.

Jesus’s mouth drops open.  “Oh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, still keeping her voice down.  He’s glad.  Even though it’s not super busy right where they are, the last thing he wants is some random friend of Grandma’s to know this.

“I didn’t want you to think I was dumber…than…you know…usual.”

“I don’t.”

“You did,” he counters.  Jesus remembers how she yelled at him for drilling the wrong-sized hole in Robotics.

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have.  But…do you love me because I’m smart?”

“Yes.”

“Just because I’m smart?  Or because I’m me?”

“Both,” Jesus tells her.

“Well, I love both about you, too.”

“You don’t have to say it…just to be nice…” Jesus ducks his head.  This is embarrassing.  He’ll hate it if she’s feeling bad for him over this.

‘I’m not.  I mean it.  You are smart.  Being able to read…or not…doesn’t change that.  It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

“How?” Jesus asks, leaning closer to her, like their lips are magnets.

She leans in, too.  Whispers, “Like this,” and kisses him, in a way she hasn’t since before all of this.

He kisses her back.

And for once, everything feels right.

–

Grandma’s wedding is weird.  First off, she doesn’t even get married.  She and Will dance down the aisle to Brandon and his new girlfriend singing, and then sit down.  And Moms come down instead.

Jesus knows for a fact they’re already married, but they seem happy doing this.  He’s happy seeing them happy.  When they kiss and it starts raining and thundering, everybody runs inside.

Even though Jesus and Emma are seated at the very back, with Jesus on the outside of a bench, it’s not enough prep for rushing people and tons of rain.  Emma and eventually Mariana and Callie walk with him across the grass.  It helps having them there, just for security.

They make it inside, drenched.  Stand at the window.

Moms are still outside kissing like nothing else matters.

And maybe, right now, it doesn’t.


	5. Diamond in the Rough

**Plateauing**

It doesn’t matter how many times Mama runs flashcards with him.  

It doesn’t get easier.

He still feels small.  Embarrassed.  Worthless.

She holds up  a picture of a car.

He sighs, and then manages, “Car.”

“Good,” she says.

(Her praise doesn’t feel like praise.  The only thing it does is reassure him that the right word actually came out of his mouth.)

Next is a…

“L-l-lamp,” Jesus stutters.  He’s so damn tired.  And when he’s tired, it’s that much harder to say stuff.  To find words.  To pretty much function.  

(He needs to get off these damn pills.)

“Nice,” Mama affirms.

This time, there’s just a letter on the card.

He blinks.  Squints.  The letter blurs and moves around.  As usual.

“Where’s the - the picture?” he asks.

“This one doesn’t have a picture.  Just a letter.  Which letter?”

“Um…  It’s the- the…” Jesus tries, but it’s no use.  Even if the E stops moving there is no guarantee he’ll be able to say he knows what it is.  Single letters (capital letters) are okay, as long as they’re printed big.  But as long as he’s tired like this, he’s not gonna get any work done.

He sighs.  “I–I have a headache, Mama.”

(He always has a headache.  They make concentrating even harder.)

“I know, love.  I can get you more Tylenol in a bit, okay?”

“Yeah.” he nods.

“Do you recognize the letter?” she asks, her tone soft.

He nods.

“Can you say it?”

He shrugs.  “Don’t…know…”

“Okay.  Can you repeat it?  We know it’s an E, right?”

Another nod.  He’s so spent.  So humiliated.  He doesn’t want to do this.

He lays his head down on the table.  

“Okay.  Let’s rest.” she says, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

–

Mama pulls into the driveway and turns off the car.  She turns to Jesus in her seat.  “I wanted to check with you, before we went inside…”

“About what?” he asks.

“How much do you want to tell your brothers and sisters?  About the doctor?”

“Nothing,” Jesus says.  “Why?  Do I h-have to?”

“Nope.  You absolutely do not have to.  So, if they ask, you or I can just say it went fine?  How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Jesus echoes, his voice flat.  He’s still so tired.  Still couldn’t find the words to ask about his pills.  So he has to keep taking them.

He pulls the energy out from somewhere to walk in the house.  Just like Mama guessed, Brandon’s asking about the appointment the minute they get in the kitchen:

“How’d it go?”

It feels like he goes to the doctor all the time now.  All this time going and nothing’s changing.  He can’t talk and stand at the same time, because he’s beyond exhausted, but Mama says just what she promised:

“Fine.”

“Are your glasses gonna start working soon?” Mariana asks.

Jesus shrugs.  He and Mama haven’t come up with an answer for that yet.  But Mama takes his cues:

“Jesus will keep us updated on whatever he wants us to know.  Right?” Mama asks.

He nods.

Brandon snickers to himself.  “I love your glasses.  You look like a minion.”

Jesus’s stomach drops.  He reaches up to take them off.

Mama helps him to the table.  Encourages him to sit.  Then she turns to Brandon.  

“Not at all.”

“Not at all, what?” he asks.

“Apologize to Jesus,” Mama insists, arms crossed.

“For what?  Brothers make fun of each other.  It’s kinda the main way we relate,” Brandon defends himself.  “Besides, I meant it in a nice way.  Minions are cute!”

“Does Jesus’s face look like what you said made him feel good?” Mama challenges.

Jesus can’t look at any of them.  His headache is major.  His self-esteem which was at about one percent has plummeted back into the negative numbers.

“I guess not…”

“It doesn’t matter if you were joking.  Or if you meant it in a nice way.  Jesus needs those glasses.  He has to wear them.  He doesn’t need to worry about his brother making comments about how he looks in them.  What if Jude made fun of your hand brace?  Or your cast?”  

Jesus sneaks a look at Brandon’s face.  Can see her words about his hand are hitting a raw nerve.

“I’m sorry, Jesus.  I shouldn’t have said that.  I’m an ass.”

“Yeah.  You are.  I have– a headache.  Can I–go?” he asks.

Mama sends him up to rest.  Jesus makes it to the living room couch.  He can hear them talking in the kitchen.  

Mama says, “No more jokes about adaptive equipment.”

“I get it.  I know.  Bad form,” Brandon says.

Jesus fakes sleep as Brandon walks through the living room.  

To be honest, he still can barely look at his brother.  First with Emma.  Now with him making asshole comments about his glasses.  

It’s like all Jesus’s worst fears are coming true.

 

**Drawing**

It’s later that afternoon when Mariana finds Jesus upstairs in bed.  A sketchpad in his lap.  The tremor in his hand is mostly gone.  And the glasses are actually starting to work.  

Lines don’t move.

He tested it out earlier and he can still sketch.  So he started working on something.  It’s not the same stuff he used to draw.  It’s different.  More architectural.  Less emotional.  Unless you know where to look.  Because Jesus’s feelings are the whole point of why he’s drawing this.

Mariana comes in his room.  “I think you look cute in your glasses.  Like Clark Kent.”

“Don’t…try so hard.”

She goes quiet, nodding to herself.  Then:

“Hey.  Are you drawing again?  Can I see?”

He flips the book against his body.  “No…” he draws the word out and looks away from her.

“I wouldn’t say anything mean.  I love your drawings.”

“Maybe…before…not…now…”

“Yes now.  Please?  I won’t tell anyone about it if you don’t want me to.  It can just be between us.”

He glances at the intercom.

Mariana goes over and speaks into it.  “Whoever’s listening, we’re muting this for privacy.”

She hits a button.  “As long as I’m with you, I think it’s okay to mute for a few minutes.  I’ll turn it back on before I go.”  She raises her eyebrows.  Waits.

Slowly, he flips the sketchpad toward her.

Mariana’s reaction is immediate, and genuine:  “Oh, this is so cool!  Do you remember those Magic Treehouse books?  About the treehouse that could travel back in time?”

He laughs softly. “Yeah.  Those were the – the first chapter books I ever read.”

“You used to say I was just like the sister.  ‘Cause she was always getting her brother into some crazy adventure.”

They both laugh.

Mariana keeps talking and it’s like she’s reading his mind:

“We used to always want a magic treehouse of our own.”

“Yeah, I wish that we had one.  Then I–I’d go back in time before any of this happened.”

Mariana hands him his sketchbook back.  She sits beside him on the bed.  “What if we built one?”

“See?  Just like the sister,” he grins.  The smile falls from his face.  “Moms w-won’t let me touch the screwdrivers…ever again.  You–can’t build.  So how would we?”

“Well, let me think about it.  Because I think…this could be our senior project.”

“For real?  You’d wanna do–this?  You hate building.”

“But I love being in charge.  I could be, like, the foreperson.  And you could be the architect, who, like, draws the blueprints or whatever.  The brains.”

“No.”

“On this, you could be.  It’s your design, Jesus.  We’d just need someone who’s good with tools.  And a budget.  And supplies.”

“Gabe?” he asks.  

“You read my mind,” she grins, reaching across him to flip the intercom back on.  “Let’s go talk to Moms.”

**Imagination**

It’s been awhile since Jesus has had something to get really excited about.  But even this has Jesus feeling overwhelmed with all the ways it might not happen.  

It probably won’t work out.

Still, he goes downstairs with her, and on the way they decide that she’ll do the talking.  She is the best negotiator, after all.  If they want a chance at doing this, they need to lean into their strengths.

Mom makes that pretty clear the minute Mariana says the words _Gabe_ and _build_  in the same sentence, Mom is shutting it down.

“Absolutely not.”

“I told you,” Jesus whispers.  “I knew she wouldn’t…let us.”

“Jesus wouldn’t have to do any of the actual building.  He could be, like, the architect.”

“All right,” Mom allows.  “And exactly how do you intend to pay for all these materials?  We certainly can’t afford all this.”

“We could.  If it was our senior project,” Jesus puts in.  He can see just the mention of senior projects has Mama interested.

“There have been juniors who have been allowed to start their senior projects early,” Mariana points out.  “And if we build the treehouse in a park or playground, we could apply for some of ABCC’s community outreach budget.  And we could fundraise through the school.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s a bad idea.  It would be good for you two to work together on something.  And good for you both to help each other.  And, Jesus, the design is pretty cool.”

“Thanks,” he says, feeling stunned and happy at the compliment.  That it’s not “pretty cool for someone with a TBI.” It’s just “pretty cool.”

“But you would still need to get faculty approval,” Mama cautions.

“Perfect.  Vice Principal.  Approved.  Done.”  Mariana’s so happy right now.  But Jesus senses a ‘but’ coming.

“Not approval from me.  Drew needs to sign off on it.”

Jesus and Mariana both frown.  “Well, can you at least put in a good word for us?” Mariana asks.

“I will do what I can.” Mama promises.  And it sounds like there might be hope after all.

 

 

**Meeting**

Mariana sets up the meeting with Drew ASAP.

They do it over Skype because that cuts out needing to walk a bunch and get tired out before the meeting even starts.  His glasses still make him self-conscious.  He’s glad his cane and helmet can’t be seen at least.

When Mariana comes downstairs, she’s wearing her glasses, too.

“Why are you wearing those?” he asks, annoyed.

“I just felt like it,” she says.

Jesus is glad she just leaves it there.  It does make him a little more at ease.  They are twins, after all.  And while his glasses aren’t the same as hers, Drew wouldn’t really know the difference.

“You ready to do this?” she asks as they sign into Skype.

“Mm-hmm,” he nods, holding onto his sketchbook.

“You’re gonna be great,” she says, in the second before Drew’s face is there on the screen.

“Mariana, it’s good to see you again.  And you must be Jesus,” Drew says, making eye contact.

Jesus nods.

“Thank you for doing this on a Saturday.” Mariana says.

“No worries,” Drew responds.  “Well, let’s hear it.”

Jesus swallows.  He’s never been good at school stuff.  And now it’s that much harder.  

Mariana holds up the sketch Jesus made so that Drew can see it.  Mariana nods to Jesus behind the paper.

“This…is a treehouse.  I want…to build it.”  

He’d been afraid no words would come out, but so far, so good.  Drew just sits and listens.  Same as he did with Mariana.  It’s still stressful, but it helps a little bit.

“This is a great sketch.  And I love the idea. Tell me how building a treehouse is personal for both of you?” Drew says after Mariana moves the drawing.  

“I sent you an..email…” Jesus says.

Before any of this, he and Mariana had talked to Callie about the kinds of questions she had to answer before getting her project approved.  ABCC wanted their projects to be personal.  So they could reflect on who they were as people.

From there, Mariana drafted an email via Jesus’s email account, asking Jesus questions along the way, about what he wanted to say.  He answered her questions and she turned his single words and short sentences into a full on explanation from his POV.  Mariana read him the finished product, and Jesus approved it.

This way, he could offer his perspective without his speech being a barrier.

“You did.  So I’m seeing, Jesus, that you want to build this treehouse because it’s always been an area of interest for you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve had some carpentry training by a family friend…who it looks like…may be available to help with the building?”

“Yes,” he answers again.

“I see.  And Mariana, for you?”

“It’s personal because a treehouse has always symbolized escape for us.  In our childhood…we’ve needed that.  Just a chance to be kids.  I want to work on this with Jesus because it’s kinda always been our dream.  And I don’t have Jesus’s drawing or carpentry skills, but I’m great at being in charge.  I know how to work under a deadline and manage my time.  And I can address the details that might fall through the cracks.”

“Good.  And how do you plan to fund this?”

“We were hoping to pick up an application from you for ABCC’s Community Outreach fund.”

“Do you have a location picked out?”

Jesus shakes his head.  “Not yet.”

“Here’s what I’m going to suggest.  It’s a solid idea.  I want you both to talk to your carpenter friend.  Get him on board, and give him the paperwork so he can sign off on this, too.  When you’ve done that, and when you’ve picked a location together, let me know, and we’ll talk again.”

Mariana’s jotting down notes.  “Timeframe?” she asks.

“Well, you’re still juniors, so technically there isn’t a rush.”

“We’ll say a week…” Mariana says, checking with Jesus before she marks it down.  “In a week, we’ll meet again, and go from there.”

“Sounds good.  Thanks you, too.  Jesus, it was nice to meet you.”

He nods.  “You…too…”

 

**Climbing**

It finally feels like Jesus might be making some real progress toward climbing out of his depression pit.  Not that it’s that easy.  It’s not.  But it’s helping to have this project with Mariana.  To have had the meeting with Drew go okay.  To have only a couple things to worry about before he approves this and they can move forward with it.

To make this treehouse dream a reality.

Mariana comes in.

“Any luck reaching Gabe?”

Jesus shakes his head.  “I texted him…but he hasn’t said anything…”

“Huh,” she says, thinking.

“Should we…locate…or wait for him?”

“I think we need to wait for him before we pick a location.  If he’s gonna be doing most of the actual building, we want him to be able to pick a spot that works best for him.”

“Right.  Yeah.  Should I…keep texting?”

“I can try to call him, too.” Mariana offers, and tries right then.  She makes a face at her phone.  “It says his number’s been disconnected…”

“No.  We need him.”

“I know.  I’ll go by his place tomorrow and see if I can figure out what’s up.  Until then…I found us some inspiration…”  She takes a book out from behind her.

“What’s that?”

She gives it to him, explaining:  “It’s the Magic Treehouse.  The one where they go to the Ice Age.  I found it in the attic.”

Jesus reaches for his glasses.  Puts them on and flips to the first page, willing the letters to organize themselves in a way that makes sense.  But so far, no luck.  They aren’t moving, but they still don’t mean what they’re supposed to mean.

“Umm…” he hedges, as Mariana stands close, just waiting.  He scoots over.  “Do you wanna…read it…to me?”

Mariana takes the book and smiles, getting on the bed with him.  They each hold onto a side of the book without even thinking about it, and Mariana starts to read.

For a minute, everything feels okay.  Then another.  Then another.  Mariana reads the whole book in no time.

But it’s just as good as Jesus remembers.

He really wants to build that treehouse.


	6. Dirty Laundry

**Checking**

Finally, it seems like things are all good with Jesus and Emma.

They’re in his room.  Kissing.  He adjusts the bed, and…she’s not kissing him anymore.

“What?” he checks.  “You okay?”

“Is…this safe for you?” Emma asks.

The question surprises him.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I think so.”  

“But you’re not sure.”

“What?  Do you want, like, a doctor’s note or something?” he jokes.

“Kinda…” she admits.

Jesus blinks at her.  All the romance just got sucked out of the moment.  Out of the room.  He tries to convince himself this is okay.  It’s a good thing.  She wants to be with him.  She wouldn’t bother to ask for doctor’s clearance if she didn’t think he was still hot.

He just…has to think about this.

It’s not like going to the doctor would be hard.  He goes all the damn time.  It’s just, the asking…about this.  His words still get kinda jammed up inside when the pressure’s on.  And around doctors?  The pressure’s always on.

So they kiss a little more, but before Jesus knows it, Emma has to go to wrestling.  He’s kinda jealous, because it’s something she’s good at that he used to be good at, but he’s kinda glad he doesn’t anymore.  Especially since all his teammates and Flintwood pressured him into doing steroids.

It took all the fun out of it for him, honestly.

They’re by the front door and can’t stop kissing, even though Mama’s right there.  Finally Emma says “Okay” and heads out the door.

“Have fun at wrestling,” he says softly.

“Bye.”

The second the door closes, he groans and turns to Mama:

“Can I have sex?” he asks.

“Wow.  Uh.  Okay.  Well…as you know, Mom and I don’t encourage it, because you’re so young, but if you do, we – we insist that you practice safe sex.”

“No.  Yeah, yeah.  I know that, Mama.  I mean, like, with my TBI is it…uh…dangerous?”

“Uh, sex…with your TBI?  Maybe, honey?  I–I don’t know.”

“Okay.  Well, can you call my doctor?”

“You want me to call your doctor and ask if my 16-year-old son can have sex?”

Jesus nods.  “Yeah, please.”

Mama does not look happy about this.  She looks a little stiff.  But she nods.  “Okay.  Fine.  I will.”

Jesus smiles and heads toward the stairs.  Stops before he starts up, and glances at Mama still doing work on her laptop.  She obviously doesn’t get how urgent this is.

“So, are you gonna call now?” he asks.

“Jesus!”

“Well, I just–” he starts out, but he knows when Mama’s had enough.  He keeps going upstairs.  Hopes that she really will call if he’s not within earshot.

 

**Talking and Doing**

For the record, it takes days for the doctor to call Mama back.  Jesus has pretty much given up on ever hearing about it when Mama asks him and Emma to sit down on the porch out back.

Talking about doing it is always awkward, but this time?  With Mama asking how they do it and saying what the doc said was off limits and that he has to be on the bottom?  Well, it’s bad.  The only good part is when she says she and Mom will waive the Closed Door rule for him so that he can have a place to do it with Emma that’s safe.  He barely hears Mama say to use protection, but they always do anyway…after Lexi he can never be too careful.

It’s weird being on the bottom.  Kinda hot.  But weird.  He knows what to do on top.  And everytime he tries to get more into it, Emma reminds him not to move too much.

“Oh, right,” he says, “My bad.”  Jesus goes limp, faking sleep just to make her laugh.

It works.

But when they try to actually do it, it’s not the same.  Even down here, it feels like he has to work way hard to get his body to do what he wants it to do.  For his arm and his leg to cooperate.  To figure out how to coordinate everything.

It used to be so easy.  Like, the single thing he was good at.

Now?  

He’s not only a totally different person but he can’t even do this.  He can’t even mess around.  It’s not fun.  It takes work.  He’s exhausted even from doing nothing.

Afterward, there’s no denying it’s super awkward.

“We’ll figure it out,” Emma tries.  “It just might take some time.  I’m totally up for trying new things.”

“Well, I’m not,” Jesus says, facing away from her.

“Jesus?”

“It’s not–you.  It’s–me.”

“Should I come back later?”

“Yeah.  Do that.”

But now or later, it won’t make a difference.  Jesus’s body still won’t cooperate.  And it sucks to have such a clear memory of how easy it used to be - how fun - and to just not be able to do it anymore.

Maybe she would be better off with Brandon after all.

 

**Reading**

Jesus is walking into the kitchen when he hears Mariana talk about how Gabe has no place to live.  Mariana hadn’t had a chance to update Jesus yet about what she found out that morning, because Jesus had been taking an epic nap.  After that, it had been Embarrassment Central with Mama and in the bedroom, where Jesus failed at everything.

So it’s no wonder that he missed the update that Gabe’s apparently homeless.

“Whoa.  What–what about Gabe?” he asks, to be sure he heard right.

“Oh.  Uh, well…he needs a place to stay if he’s gonna help us, so I volunteered the garage,” Mariana explains.

“Well–Mama–can he?”

“I really need to discuss this with Mom first.”

“But if she says no, does that mean that–we don’t get to build the treehouse?”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Mama says.  “But Jesus, your medication.”

He sighs.  “How long do I have to take this for?”

“Until your doctor is comfortable taking you off them.  It shouldn’t be too long.”

“Are there any side-effects?”  He’s been feeling extra crappy ever since he got home.  Moms said part of that could be side-effects, but he’s been too exhausted until now to look into it more.

“Well, they usually list them on the bottle.  Let me have it,” Mama offers.

“Side effects include: dizziness, headache, sleep problems and skin rash?”

“Wait.  Wait a minute, are you reading that?” Mama asks.

“What?  Am I?  Whoa!  I am!”

“You’re reading!” Brandon says and rushes over with Callie, Mariana and Mama behind him.  

Everybody’s talking all at once, but Jesus can just make out Mama, urging him to keep going.

“Take one capsule by mouth three times a day!”

They’re so happy, they don’t notice that Jesus doesn’t actually take his pill.  He’s sick of feeling sick.  Of not sleeping.  Of extra headaches.  Of the nervous feeling.  He doesn’t want the weird rash or any of the other stuff that might come if he keeps taking this crap.

Mama didn’t have an end date in sight, so Jesus will just stop for a bit and see what happens.

 

**Cheeking**

Jesus’s plan to stop taking his meds only lasts a couple of hours.  

That night, Brandon’s in his room with a glass of water and one of those damn pills in his hand.  Mama figured out that he “forgot” to take one.

“Thanks,” Jesus says, walking over and taking the pill from Brandon.

“Yep,” Brandon says.

“I think Emma’s…done with me…” Jesus confides, putting the pill in his mouth and chasing it with some water.

“Why?”

“Just…everything’s different now.  Harder.  I think she’s gonna break up with me.”

“You guys talked, right?” Brandon asked.  “A while ago?”

“I mean, yeah.  She said everything was fine.  But that was before…we knew…how hard it was gonna be.”

“What?”

“Sex.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.  She’s not gonna want to hang around if I’m…not even…good at that.”

“I think she will.  She cares about more than just that.”

“But without…sex…it’s like we’re…just friends.  And…maybe she doesn’t…want to be my girlfriend now…”

“I’d just talk to her.  Ask her.  Get it all out on the table.  So you’re not wondering all the time.”

“So…you can date her?” Jesus asks, eyes darkening.

Brandon looks him in the eye.  “Listen.  I never dated her.  I don’t want to date her.  I swear, okay?”

“Fine.  Night,” he says.

Jesus waits ‘til Brandon leaves, and then spits the pill into the palm of his hand.


	7. Who Knows

**Planning**

Gabe’s over because he’s moving into their garage.  So he can stay in town and help with the treehouse.  Moms must’ve talked it out and been okay with it after all.  Now, Jesus, Mariana and Gabe are planning for the actual project.

It’s really going to happen.

And it’s pretty much one of the best things that’s happened since all of this - to hear Gabe sounding honestly impressed about his treehouse sketches.  Yeah, Drew had said they were good, and Moms, but Gabe actually does construction for a living.

To hear it from him, well, it means something.

It’s been so long since he’s been able to feel genuinely good about anything.

But Jesus has to focus because Gabe’s talking about finding a tree to build in.  Mariana says that’s her department.  She tells Gabe all the places she’s gonna scout out trees.  She has a notebook and everything, to write down what Gabe says.  Jesus likes that she looks to both him and Gabe about her tree question.  It means she knows he knows about this stuff, too.

“I–I–I would say a h–h–h–hard…wood tree?  Right?

Gabe only pauses for a second too long.  The stuttering is back.  But other than that, Jesus is feeling so much better than he has been.  Just the idea that he doesn’t have an extra pill inside him making him feel terrible is making Jesus feel awesome.

“Right,” Gabe says.  “Yeah.  Like an oak or a walnut.”

“Got it,” Mariana says.

Now, Ana’s out back, with baby Isabella.  She’s so cute.  

“Hi,” Ana says.  She tells them she hopes she’s not interrupting and that she and Bella were on their way to daycare and that it’s near here.

Gabe stands up, totally into the baby.  “So, this is Isabella?” he asks.

Mariana asks if Gabe’s met her before.  He says no.  Then he tells Ana that Bella looks like her.  

It’s like they’re a perfect family.  Mom.  Dad.  Baby.  Gabe seems so stoked to get to hold baby Isabella.  Ana’s doing good now.  

Jesus looks at Mariana and it’s that thing where each of them just knows what the other one is thinking.  Like, this is great.  But why couldn’t we have this?

Jesus’s memory is like a steel trap for the bad stuff: he remembers Ana leaving him and Mariana when they were babies.  When they were only a little older than Bella, probably.  He remembers Gabe saying that he told Ana to abort them.  That nothing good came from the two of them being together.

It makes Jesus feel like nothing.

He can tell Mariana feels it, too.

“I should get going if I’m gonna find this tree,” Mariana says, when Ana’s cautioning Gabe to be careful because Bella likes beards.  It’s obvious that it’s all Mariana can stand of their birth parents and half sis making the perfect happy family in the yard, while he and Mari weren’t cared for at all - weren’t  _wanted_  - at all.

Jesus kinda wants to leave, too, but he also wants to talk more to Gabe.  They haven’t really connected since everything went down.  Jesus wants him to know that it’s okay.  That he doesn’t blame him for what happened.  He’s not sure those exact words will come out, but he wants to try.

Ana talks to Gabe about a job she found that he could have, and then she has to go.  She takes Bella back from Gabe and then looks at Jesus:

“I’m really glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks,” Jesus says, offering her a sad smile.

When she and the baby leave, Gabe sits down across from Jesus, and waits, like he knows Jesus wants to talk.

But the words that come out of Jesus’s mouth aren’t reassurances that Gabe is off the hook for Jesus being hurt.  They’re about getting help.  About meds. Back a while ago, when the whole nail gun thing happened, Gabe wasn’t showing up ‘cause he was sleeping all the time.

Gabe and Mom talked, and Mom didn’t tell Jesus specifics, but Jesus could figure out depression when he saw it.

“Uh…so…have you ever tried to get any help?  With, like, a doctor or something?” he asks.  “Just ‘cause…I know you were, like, depressed…a while ago?”

“Uh, um, yeah.  Yeah, I mean, I went and saw someone but…you know, they wanted to put me on pills.  But, you know, they got a lot of side-effects, and I think they screw you up more, so…”

“Yeah.  Definitely.  I see that.”

(Is this what they mean when they say like father, like son?)

 

**Connection**

Jesus is in the little area where Brandon used to practice piano, behind that bead curtain. It offers a little more privacy for sketching.  Right now, Jesus is working on the interior of the treehouse.

“Hey,” Mariana says.

“Hey.”

“Does it ever make you feel bad?  Seeing Ana with Isabella?  How good of a mom she is to her?”

“No.  I don’t think about it.”  

Not exactly what he’d meant to say: ( _I try not to think about it_ ) but close enough.  It makes him sad to think about it.  And he’s sad enough, thinking that for some unknown reason, Isabella is worth more than him and Mariana.  She can be loved.  Be cared for.  Be in the world.  Not forgotten.

Some things are just too real to talk about with Mariana.  They both lived through the rejection.  To talk about it feels like a connection that’s too intense.  That Jesus couldn’t stand if it happened.

He doesn’t know how Mariana can.

He knows she’s in therapy now, to deal with stuff.  She told him she got a PTSD diagnosis.  Jesus hadn’t known what to say back.  So he settled with, “That makes sense.”  But they haven’t talked about it much since.

He doesn’t want to talk about this.  Not now.  Not ever.  

They lived through it together.  That’s enough.

But it’s not enough for Mariana, who asks: “Do you remember Ana leaving us?  In our crib, when we were babies?  For, like, a whole day or more?”

“Yeah,” he admits softly.  “Yeah…actually, I–I had a…  I had a dream about it when I was in my coma.  We were in our crib and you were crying and I was–I was trying to take care of you.”

“We were babies.  It wasn’t…your job to take care of me.”

_Whose job was it?_   Jesus thinks, but doesn’t ask.  He’s glad Moms aren’t so hyper about the damn intercom being on anymore because this isn’t a conversation he wants the whole damn house listening in on.

“My therapist thinks that I should confront Ana about it.”

This gets his attention.  “What?  Wh–What would–  Wh-Wh–What’s the point of that?  I mean, she was–she was a drug addict.”

“So that lets her off the hook?”

“No, Mariana, but she was also, like, really, really young, and she never sh– should have h–had us.”

Mariana looks like he might as well have slapped her.  Shocked.  She knows about what Gabe said because he told her.  About how Gabe said he told Ana to abort them.  But hearing Jesus say Ana never should have had them is different.

It’s how he’s been feeling though.  Like he shouldn’t have existed at all.  Especially with Gabe and Ana loving Isabella like that, but not being able to get it together for them.

“So…is that what you would’ve done?” Mariana asks, surprising him.  “If you were Gabe?  Would you tell her to get an abortion?”

He shakes his head.  “No.  I would’ve been a dad.  No matter how young I was, I would’ve stepped up, and I would’ve had the kid, and I would’ve taken care of him.  But they are not us, okay?  And it does us absolutely no good…getting mad at them.”

It doesn’t.

If he gets mad at them, they might leave again.  And as painful as it is seeing them happy with Isabella, it would be worse to be left again.  To be left now. When they both have real life stuff going on.

People don’t want kids with problems.  He remembers that from moving a bunch of times before he and Mariana got here.

If Mariana brings this up with Ana, it’s only a matter of time before she leaves.

And then Gabe.

And then Moms.

Just like his dream, which was the realest thing he’d ever dreamed in his life.

People say dreams come true all the time.

But Jesus doesn’t want it to happen with this one.

 

**Helping**

Later that day, Jesus is helping Gabe move boxes into the garage.  It feels good to be able to help.  Gabe asks if he should be lifting heavy stuff.

“Yeah.  I’m fine.  It’s good for me to move around.”  

It is.  Especially with him feeling less dizzy and sick all the time.  He still has a headache, but that’s normal.  Without all the other stuff going on from the meds, Jesus almost feels like a new person.

The feeling doesn’t last.  When he stands up from setting a box down, this weird high-pitched tone starts in his head and all the sound fades.  Just like that, he’s super confused and when the noise stops, Gabe is standing with him in the garage asking if he’s okay.

Jesus looks around, for clues about what could be going on right now.  What was he just doing?  He’s not even supposed to be out in the garage, or around tools at all.  But the garage looks different now.

He can’t figure out what’s going on.

“Um…” he starts, hesitantly.  “What are–  What are–  What are we–  What are we doing?” he manages to ask.

“Uh…We’re…We’re movin’ my stuff in…” Gabe says, like he’s worried.

“Why?” Jesus asks.  No context for this situation has materialized.  He has no idea what’s going on.

Gabe steps closer.  “Should I call your mom?” he asks.

“N-No…No…  Um…um…  This–  This– This happens to me sometimes.  I just–  I forget what I’m–what I’m doing.”

“Jesus, are you sure I shouldn’t go get your mom?” Gabe asks again.

“Yeah–no–don’t.  Don’t.  I’m–I’m–I’m fine.  I’m fine.  I just–um.  I stopped taking my meds.  Because of the–the side effects.  Like you were saying.  Just like you were saying.”

Things are starting to make sense now.  He remembers.  But he still feels off.  He can’t explain it, because he never felt it before…but he can’t let Gabe know.  He just got used to feeling better.  Without as much nervousness and he could sleep a little last night finally.  It’s worth it to be off them.

Gabe still doesn’t seem sure.

“And, yeah,” Jesus continues.  “I can’t…sleep when I’m on them…and I feel all nervous.  And get sick to my stomach.  It’s bad.  I feel better now.  Really.”

“Um…you could probably ask your Moms about something to help you sleep?” Gabe offers.

“I don’t—I don’t–I don’t  I don’t….need…them!  I’m–I’m getting better, okay?” Jesus insists.

(He needs to be getting better. He can’t handle these side-effects.  Especially not if no one knows when he can stop taking these pills.)

“…So just, please, don’t tell my moms…” he begs, just as Mama walks in.

“Hey.  You getting settled in?” she asks Gabe, a smile on her face.  She must not have heard any of what Jesus and Gabe were just saying. He’s safe.  Now if Gabe will just keep his mouth shut, Jesus will be in the clear.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I think so…”

Mama asks if they want lunch.  Gabe says no, because he doesn’t wanna impose but Mama says it’s not an imposition.  Then Gabe thanks her for letting him stay here.  That he won’t be long.

“What?  No, man, you can stay as long as you want,” Jesus insists.

Mama doesn’t answer, except to tell him it’s time to take his pills.  Jesus says okay.

Gabe just smiles at her, and doesn’t say another word.

He goes in the house, and easily stores the pill in the side of his mouth. As soon as he can, he heads upstairs to his room, to the bathroom, to flush it.

He’s done this three times so far, and the third time’s a charm.  ‘Cause he’s not getting caught.

 

**Lying**

Jesus is just out of the bathroom when he hears Brandon yelling at Mariana over something.  He knows she’s been dealing with a lot and doesn’t need Brandon telling her she’s a crappy friend, or whatever.

He walks in her room.  “What’s going on?”

Brandon gets out of there right away, and Mariana’s insisting she’s fine.

Then Mama’s here, telling Mariana not to spread some rumor she heard about ABCC around.

When she asks to talk to Jesus for a sec, he doesn’t see it coming.

They walk to his room and she closes the door.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“So, when did you stop taking your anti-seizure meds?” Mama asks.

“I didn’t,” he denies.  (Gabe lied.  He basically told Jesus he wouldn’t tell Mama and then did two seconds later.)

“Jesus,” she warns.

“I didn’t.  You just w-watched me take it.”

Mama sits down.  Waits.  

Jesus waits, too.  Hell, if he’s gonna own up to this.  He’s not in control of anything anymore.  At least this way he can sleep.  He can stop feeling so sick, and nervous and getting extra headaches and shit.

“Did you take your pill last night when Brandon brought it up to you?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says.

“Jesus.  Gabe just came and told me about what happened in the garage.  He said that you told him you’d stopped taking your pills because of the side-effects.  Is that true?”

“No,” Jesus denies.

“Jesus.  This is very serious.  You cannot go off your meds without a doctor’s supervision, okay?  It’s dangerous.”

“Nobody was gonna–tell me when I could stop.  The meds made me feel bad, Mama.  Sick.  Nervous.  I couldn’t–sleep….”

“So, you come to us.  Tell us.”

“I did!”  He’s yelling.  He’s tried so hard not to get to yelling.  “You said–t-t-tell you if it gets–worse!  How–  How–  How– How much worse?!  I c-c-couldn’t–sleep!  Last night…it was the first night…in a long time…I got sleep!”

Mama reaches out for his hand.  Holds it.  “So, that was our mistake.  For not remembering that when things are hard, you usually come to us when you’re already past your limit. Right?”

Jesus nods.  

She is right.  He’s used to not needing anybody.  It’s part of the reason this injury has been so damn hard to deal with.  Because it’s forced him to rely on people when he’s vulnerable.  And that feels terrifying.

“How many pills, Jesus?  I need you to tell me.  And be honest.  How many have you not taken?”

“Three,” he whispers.  “Last night, this morning and now…”

“Okay.   First?  I hear you.  How you feel matters to me.  I know the pills make you feel bad, bud.  But we need to be wise about this.  So, first, I’m going to call your doctor, and get you in as soon as possible, to discuss different meds.”

“When?”

“The soonest available appointment.”

“Like right now?”

“No, honey.  Probably in a day or two, at least,” Mama sounds bummed about this.

Jesus’s face falls.

“And until then, I need you to keep taking the ones you have.”

“No.  No!  I just–said I can’t!”

She reaches for his hand, but Jesus jerks away, feeling hurt.  Betrayed.  Completely out of control that he just got back.

He gets up.  Leaves the room.  But he still has to take the pill.

 

**Humiliation**

He’s had to take three more pills so far, since his conversation with Mama.  

So, it’s been back to zero sleep.  Nervousness.  Headaches on top of headaches.  Dizziness.  Stomachaches.

And now, taking them is so much worse because Mama knows he’s been hiding them.

So, she gives it to him in private, but expects him to take it in front of her while she watches.  She checks his mouth out after, to make sure it’s not under his tongue or something.  

It’s humiliating.

“How long are you gonna make me do this?” he asks, feeling hopeless.

“We have an appointment this afternoon, Jesus.  I hope this’ll be the last Tegretol you’ll have to take.”

“You checking…like this…I don’t like it.”

“No, I’m sure it feels awful for you.  But you know why, right?”

“You don’t want me to have seizures,” he sighs.

“This is the best way we know how to keep you safe right now, bud.  And in a few hours, we’ll fix this, so you don’t have to feel so sick all the time.  So just, try to hang in there until then.”

Jesus nods.  As if he has a choice.

Then it’s down to the kitchen for breakfast that Jesus totally doesn’t want.  Mama has to run an errand for an hour and she leaves just as Gabe comes in.

Jesus looks away.  Concentrates on his cereal.

“I should’ve known I couldn’t trust you…” Jesus mutters darkly.

“That’s not true.  But I couldn’t let you hurt yourself.  You forgot what we were doing.  You could’ve had another seizure.”

“So?  People forget things.  Big deal!  You’re such a h–h–hypocrite!  Maybe you should take your meds!”

“I wanna be here for you, Jesus,” Gabe offers.

“No, you don’t.  You almost left town without telling us.  The only reason you’re here right now is so that you have a–a place to live!”

“I had a job in Tahoe.”

“Well, then, maybe you should go!” Jesus yells.  He is so done with Gabe right now.  “I’m sure it’s still available!”

“Talk about it later,” Gabe says quietly and walks out.

 

**Losing**

“Hey,” Mom says softly, coming in to sit beside him.  Putting an arm around him.  Like it’s normal to find him crying over his breakfast.

“I feel so sick–all the time, Mom…” he admits.  “I can’t sleep.  I feel f–freaked out–at everything.”

Mom just hums a little and rubs his back.  

“I don’t–I don’t wanna live like this…” he admits.  “Feeling sick…not knowing things…not–talking–the same.”

Mom shifts so she can put her arms around him.  Just holds him for a while.  “I respect your limitations, love, okay?  It makes sense that you’re depressed.  It really, really does.  I wish there was some way I could help.  Could take all this away from you.  But all I can tell you is what I know for sure.”

She takes his face between her hands.  Looks him in the eyes.  “People change, love.  Over time.  Life changes people.  Experiences change people.  It’s okay not to be the same.  You’re going to keep making improvements, my baby, I believe that.  But it’s gonna be hard for a while.”

“Emma’s…gonna…break up with me.  Our thing, it’s physical, and I can’t like be physical ‘cause it’s like you said.  Everything’s hard.  And I think everybody knows–she’s not with me for my mind…”

“Jesus.  There is nothing wrong with your mind.  I promise you.  Okay?  You’ve had a brain injury.  And that took away a lot of things.  And made a lot of things harder.  But it didn’t take away your sense of humor.  Or your smarts.  Or the fact that you are a good person, with a good heart, who I love very much.  Emma loves you for that, too.”

“Gabe and Ana love the baby.”

“Isabella?” Mom questions.  She’s holding him around the back again.

“Yeah.  They love her…but not us.”

“Oh.”

“Mariana’s gonna confront Ana…about something she did when we were babies…in therapy…but I don’t want her to.”

Jesus can see Mom’s eyes get dark at the mention of Ana hurting them.  She and Mama hate knowing that they couldn’t always love them, and keep them safe.  But she doesn’t say anything.  Just keeps listening.

“What if she leaves?  And then Gabe?  And then…Mama…and then you?”

Just like that Mom is hugging him again.  

“You are worth loving.  You always have been.  You always will be.  Mama and I are your parents.  We aren’t leaving you.  Even though things are hard.  Even though you stopped taking your pill.  People make mistakes.  You’re allowed.”

He sniffs.

“You still think this you is too hard to love, yes?” she checks softly.

He nods.

“You are not too hard to love, my baby.  You are amazing to love.  And Ana and Gabe?  They’re missing out.  Because I get to love you.  I will never leave you.  I’m with you.”

“Are you sure…you love me?” he asks, a whisper.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she says back.

He takes a deep breath, breathing in the truth, and holding on to it, as tight as he can.

 

**Knowing**

By that afternoon, so much has changed.

Mama took him to the doctor, as promised, and he got a new medication: Dilantin.  The doctor said they all kinda have similar side-effects but that they’re supposed to go away in a few days.  To let him know if after 5 days they’re still hanging around.

It took a bit to figure out dosing with his ADD meds.  Because that whole thing is a balancing act.  But it’s possible.  And he only has to take this one in the morning and at night.  No afternoon dose.

He and Emma are in bed together, and he’s decided to tell her that he might not be ready for physical stuff quite yet.  

“So, you know, it might–it might be, like, a while until I can–”

“That’s okay.  I don’t care about that.  I mean, I do.  But that’s not  _all_  that I care about.”  

They both laugh, quiet.

Then kiss.

“Well, you know, we can still do stuff.  You know, for you…” he offers, as they kiss more.

“Hell, yeah,” Emma answers, like this is a great idea.  But just as quickly, she stops.

“You okay?” he checks.

“Brandon said he never told you,” Emma says looking at Jesus seriously.

“Never told me what?”

“Remember…back a while ago…I didn’t come over that one day, and then I said I wasn’t in the mood to…you know…”  She looks at them, their bodies close together on the bed.

“Yeah.”

“I found out when you were in the hospital…that I was pregnant.  I knew I didn’t want to have a baby…so I had an abortion.”

“It was–  It was mine?” Jesus asks, stunned.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah…I just…need some time…”

He doesn’t know why he says that.  There’s not enough time in the world to deal with this.  His world is spinning.  Suddenly, med side-effects are the last thing on his mind.

And Jesus can’t stop thinking:  _If the baby was mine, how did Brandon know about it?_


	8. Until Tomorrow

**Dreaming**

That night, Jesus dreams that the whole conversation happens again.  Except differently.  In it, he guesses she’s pregnant.  Reassures her.  Says they can raise this baby together.  But dream Emma says she had an abortion.  When Jesus asks why, he also tells her he’s adopted, and she knows that.  And then dream Emma drops the bomb:

“ _The baby wasn’t yours,_ ” she says.  “ _It was Brandon’s._ ”

He’s startled awake by a text from actual Emma.  He puts on his glasses and reads:  

_U seemed kinda weird when I left yesterday.  Everything ok?_

He texts back:  _Yep.  All good.  Have fun at school._   Then he puts the phone down and stays where he is.  Mom’s with Callie at a meeting and Mama’s at ABCC for something.  Gabe’s around and Brandon.  

But Jesus isn’t planning on needing anything from either of them.

It hits him a bit later.  

He’s tired enough to sleep until his phone wakes him up.  Chilled out enough to just hang out in bed in the morning.

The new meds are already so much better than the old ones.

 

**Studying**

The pill’s not a magic cure, and neither are the glasses. It’s just like Mom said: it’s gonna be hard for a while.  Just because his brain can organize letters on a page into words and sentences and paragraphs, that doesn’t mean it’s easy to do.  Reading a book is like diving into an ocean of words and knowing he doesn’t have enough oxygen to make it as far as he needs to.

The words on the page are so dense.  

Emma’s doing her homework right near him.  Which is great, for when he needs help, but annoying because every time she rustles a paper, or sighs, or types, Jesus loses his place.

Then, upstairs, Brandon and Callie start singing.

And Emma chooses that moment to ask what page he’s on:

“Uh, I’m on page 47, and if you ask me again, in an hour, I will probably  _still_  be on page 47.”  He smiles, because it’s easier to see the humor in this than to get all bent out of shape about it.

Emma smiles back.

Then Mariana comes in, and tells them about some big board meeting happening at ABCC and about how a bunch of them are going to try and save the school from being converted to private.  She says Jesus and Emma should both come.

They agree to.

Later on, he tries to confront Brandon about the Emma thing.  He asks, point blank, if Brandon’s ever gotten someone pregnant.

Brandon kinda laughs and says no.  So Jesus pushes.

“You haven’t?” he tries.

“No.  Why?”

“Just wondering…”

But in Jesus’s mind, Brandon’s there, kissing Emma, and Emma’s saying: “ _Sorry.  You’re too dumb for me_.”

He believes that Emma was pregnant.

Believes she had an abortion.

But he also believes it’s because of what his subconscious has been telling him all along:

The baby was Brandon’s.

 

**Telling**

That night, Jesus decides.  He’s got to do the right thing.  Tell Moms about what Emma said.  They would wanna know, and it’s important.  

Also, he’s been trying to piece this together.  Looking for a way that Brandon could have known about it but not actually had any…involvement.

Half the time, he’s totally convinced that the baby was Brandon’s and the other half?  His mind is full of questions.  How else could Brandon be involved?  Why wouldn’t Emma just tell him?  Why all the secrets…unless she had something to hide?

And just like that, he’d be back to Brandon.  And then more questions.

He knocks on Moms’ door.  

Tells them Emma got pregnant and then she had an abortion.  That he just found out and he thought they should know.  

They’re weirdly calm about it all.  But then again, compared to head injuries and court cases, a girl exercising her right to choose isn’t exactly major.

“Did Emma tell you?” Mama asks.

“Yeah.  Not at first.  But…eventually.  Yesterday.”

Mom pats the bed and has him sit.  Asks him how he’s feeling about all this.

“It feels weird,” he admits.

“Mm-hmm,” Mom says.

“I mean, obviously Ana could’ve had an abortion and–and–and we wouldn’t be here.”

“And we’re so glad she didn’t,” Mom says.  “Because we wouldn’t have gotten to know you, and love you, and be your moms.”

Jesus glances at Mama.  She’s been quiet.

“Are you?” he checks.  “Glad?  Because I-I remember that…journal.  Where you said…you didn’t…want to…adopt us.”

“Jesus.  Of course, I’m glad.  I’m glad every day I get to be your mom.  But the truth is, that at first, the idea of being a mom was a little bit scary for me.  I wasn’t sure I was ready.  And instead of writing that, I wrote that I didn’t want to adopt you guys.  I was trying to keep you at a distance.  I’m so sorry you found that.  And read it.  And I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it, too, when I talked to Mariana.”

“That–wasn’t our fault, though.  That you weren’t ready.”

“That’s right.  It wasn’t.”

“No one’s ready to be a parent, love.  When I had Brandon, I was scared out of my mind.  I loved him desperately but I wanted more time, so much more time.  I was afraid I wasn’t gonna be a good enough mom to him.”

“But you were,” Jesus points out.

“Right, and over time, I got comfortable parenting him, just like Mama did with you and Mariana.  It doesn’t mean she didn’t love you or want you.”

He raises his eyebrows at Mama, to check.

“It doesn’t mean I didn’t love you or want you,” she echoes, moving next to him on the other side.  “You and your sister are the greatest gifts life ever gave me.  You two made me a mom.  You were my first babies.”

“Big babies…” Jesus cracks a smile, thinking of himself and his sister at eight years old.  Not exactly newborns like Brandon had been.

“Perfect babies,” Mama counters, kissing his temple.

“I think…I’d be scared to be a dad, too.  Um..I said that I would never get into a situation like this…but if–if I did, I wouldn’t…” he trails off.  He’s so sad.  “But, it’s Emma’s body, so…” he sighs.  “I just wish that–that she would’ve told me.  Earlier.  You know?”

“Yeah,” Mom says.

“Are you gonna talk to her anymore about it?” Mama asks.

“I think…I should wait…until she brings it up…” he decides.

Mom strokes his hair.

He leans into her touch.

 

**Variation**

Jesus does show up to the thing at ABCC.  Finds Mariana there.

They step aside to where it’s quieter.

“So…how did it go?” he asks. “Therapy.  With Ana.”

Mariana’s smile fades.  He knows what it looks like when she’s trying too hard, and she’s been trying to hard this whole time.  Like, since he got hurt.  They’re both just trying to keep it together.

“She denied it.”

He reaches for her hand.  Threads their fingers together.

“Made it all about her…”

Squeezes.

“And left…”

Leans into her.

“And I knew she would,” Mariana manages, through tears.  “Like…we know her.  And that’s what she does when things get messy, or hard or whatever…but it’s what my therapist said to do…  I thought I at least should take his advice…since I’m costing Moms a ton of money on top of everything else I’ve done lately.”

“What have you–done lately?”

“The whole Nick thing, taking your pills, you getting hurt…”

“Nick’s thing…and me?  Those are on Nick.  You taking my pills?  Wasn’t smart…but it made sense, Mariana.  You were scared.”

She wipes her eyes.  “Yeah…but I’m costing them money for therapy that’s not even working.  Moms just think I’m manipulating them all the time.”

“Are you?”

“Sometimes…” she admits.

“Because you’re freaked out.  Right?” he asks.  “And it makes you feel better to think that you have control.  Especially when stuff might–go bad.  When you might–get hurt.”

“Why can’t you be my therapist?”

“I can,” he smiles.  “Where’s my money?”

She laughs.  “I’ll pay you in…  What do you need more of?”

_Love.  Acceptance.  Patience.  Trust._

The words are all in his head but none come out.  Jesus shrugs.

“What do you have?” he asks instead.

“Hugs?” she offers, and wraps her arms around him.

“I’ll take those,” he sighs.  “I’ll definitely take those.”

 

**Revelation**

It’s dark, and Jesus has been at ABCC and its chaotic save the school protest thing for hours.  He’s already feeling shaky after seeing Mariana confront Nick’s dad at the front of school.

Hearing him even talk to her knowing how he treated Nick it just makes Jesus feel so powerless. But he stands with Mariana, because he has to protect her.  Because they have each other’s back’s.  Because they always have.

After that, Jesus has mostly just hung out by himself or with Emma.  Mariana basically spearheaded this whole thing so she needs to be everywhere talking to everybody and organizing people.

But it starts getting boring when Emma doesn’t come back after going to talk to some other friends.  

When the rain starts, Jesus decides to look for her.  It takes forever, but eventually, he spots her talking to Brandon.  He just watches from a distance and then hears Brandon say:

“I think Jesus is starting to get suspicious.”

It’s enough to make Jesus walk right up.  To feel the anger crackle to life under his skin.

“Did you?” he asks, coming to stand between them, and crowding Brandon back.  “Did you know about Emma?”

“What?  What about her?” Brandon asks, playing dumb.  But he has on that same face as when they were kids.  He’s never been a good liar.

“That she was pregnant!” Jesus exclaims.

“Shh!  Quiet!  Jesus!” Brandon reprimands, all pissy.  “Come here.  Come on.  Stop.  Stop,” Brandon walks them off to the side more.  Away from people.  

Emma doesn’t want everyone at school knowing.

But  _Brandon_  could?

“Why did you know?!” Jesus demands.  “Why didn’t you–  Why would you tell him?!”  He can hardly keep a lid on who he’s yelling at.  Both of them.  They both have been keeping this from him.

“I didn’t!  He–” Emma starts.

“I figured it out,” Brandon finishes.  “And–”

“And–and–and–and what, Brandon?!” Jesus insists.

“And–and…I went with her to–” Brandon starts again, but Jesus cuts him off, shocked.

“What?  Wait, wait, you…  You took Emma to–to get an–an abortion?!” Jesus has got to be still dreaming.  Maybe he never woke up this morning and this whole thing has just been a dream.

“She was scared.  She needed a friend, and she couldn’t tell you.”

“Why couldn’t she tell me?!”  he turns to Emma, “Why couldn’t you tell me?  It was mine, too!  Emma, why couldn’t you–  Why couldn’t you tell me?” he begs.

“I’m sorry, Jesus.  I really am.  I just–  I thought that it was for the best,” Emma answers, tearful.  

“Best for who?!” he asks.

She doesn’t answer, and the pieces click into place:

“Because…because the baby was his.  That’s why you didn’t want to tell me.  Because the baby was  _Brandon’s_!”

“Jesus, that–” Brandon starts.

“Guys, come here,” Jude calls.  “They’re not gonna let us in, so we’re not gonna let them out!”

Brandon and Emma are distracted for half a second, and that’s all Jesus needs to turn and take off.  He has the dark on his side, because he’s not the fastest, and it’s slippery out here.  But he needs to get away from them.

From this.

All Jesus can hear, all the way home is Nick’s dad, telling Mariana, “You don’t have a say.”

The words echo in his head.

And they’re true.  He didn’t have a say at all, because it wasn’t his baby.

It can’t have been his baby…His own brother wouldn’t have gone behind his back to help Emma abort Jesus’s baby…

He would, though, if it was his own.  

And even if Brandon can’t admit it?  Jesus knows it’s true.

He can’t tell which possibility is worse.  It all runs together like adrenaline and anger and hurt and betrayal.  

He keeps running.  Doesn’t look back.

Because it’s just like Mariana said:

Running is what they do when things get messy or hard or whatever.


End file.
